Eldon Reed's Blog

Think You Might Write a Book? – Are you kidding?

I hear it all the time. “Eldon, I’ve been thinking about writing a book.”

How should I respond to that? Most people think they can just sit down at a computer and type out 80,000 words that readers will wait in line to buy. They are sure they will become instantly famous. They start searching for that big house of their dreams, thinking about that new sports car they’ve always wanted.

Hold on, Mr. Writer-wanna-be. If you really have a desire to write, start with a little poem to your sweetheart. Oh, and make sure you have a dictionary handy. This one would not impress:

You’re soft marshmellow face is so buteful

But your inteligence defiantly is what I lick about you.

You fullfill me in every way.

I’ll always be commited to you untill the end of time.

 

Make sure your spelling is flawless! But there’s more to writing than correct spelling. Grammar (or bad grammar) can be just as telling. http://grammargirl.com/ is an excellent reference for new writers. Grammatically Correct by Anne Stilman is an excellent reference book for your desk.

If you hope to write a novel, before you start, buy all the books you can on the craft of writing fiction. I have dozens and still refer to many of them often. Here are a few of my suggestions: Writing for the Soul by Jerry B. Jenkins, The Plot Whisperer by Martha Alderson, and Dialogue, Techniques, and exercises for crafting effective dialogue. By Gloria Kempton. Characters, Emotion & Viewpoint, by Nancy Kress, and The Fire in Fiction, by Donald Maass. Until you’ve studied the art and craft of fiction, you have no business plunking out a lot of words that aren’t well-planned and well-edited.

While I’m on the subject of editing, a once-through read of your manuscript will never do. Hire a professional editor! And before you even think of sending your story to that editor, you should have read through it (and corrected mistakes) a dozen times. No editor wants to see a manuscript that is so full of spelling and grammar mistakes that it is difficult to even follow the story line.

Now, about your storyline: a novel has a definite sequence of events that must happen on the way to the big climax. In your books on the craft of writing, you will learn about Act 1, 2, and 3. Don’t deviate much from the placement in your story of those acts.

So, you still think you might want to write a book? First, learn all you can about the craft of writing. Buy all the books you can on the subject. Buy paperbacks, note-books. You’ll need to refer back to them often, and it is easier to find what you need in a soft or hardcover edition than an electronic book.

But maybe I’ve missed the most important step. Before you begin your writing journey, read dozens of novels in your preferred genre. You’ll begin to see a pattern in the storylines. You’ll learn how dialogue is written. You’ll see how important it is to hook your reader quickly.

Writing an 80,000-word novel takes years of educating yourself on the craft. But don’t even think about writing a book if you’ve not read dozens, if not hundreds, in your preferred genre.

If that story is still burning in your soul, do the prep work and then make it happen.

 

Enjoy the journey,

Eldon

Murder on Fifth Avenue

Murder on Fifth Avenue

It was morning rush hour. The sidewalk hummed with the normal flurry of suits and briefcases, some marching to glassed-in offices with walnut desks, others trudging up to ho-hum cubicles with cookie-cutter workstations. Martin Van Buren’s corner office was on the forty-ninth floor of Trump Tower.

Although Martin was CEO of Gucci Incorporated, no nameplate lay on his desk. The credenza behind that massive desk displayed family photos in simple black frames. While successful, Martin was a fashion non-conformist in the corporate world. His closet never contained an Armani or a Givenchy. Frogg Toggs Hip Waders was more his style. Some worked to pay a big mortgage and drive a Mercedes. Martin worked to cast a fly up in the Adirondacks.

The green walk sign lit up. Martin stepped off the curb. Two shots split the air. Martin’s body hit the pavement. A couple of suits rushed to him. Most hurried to the nearest building for cover. The suits knelt down beside Martin. One felt for a pulse. There was one but very weak.

Distant sirens screamed.

Martin’s wife stayed at his bedside while doctors did all they could. Eight days later the hum of a ventilator transitioned into a welcoming choir for fifty-year-old Martin Van Buren.

***

     The initial introductions were nice, but I can only imagine what is to come. Beauty—as I’ve never seen.

Our Baby Angelique will be here. Oh, and I see Dad walking toward me. He’s carrying a fly rod. The scene is changing. Behind him is a gorgeous stream meandering alongside a mountain blanketed by Eastern white pine.

I walk toward him. We meet. Dad grins, places his hand on my shoulder and presses me forward. “Martin,” he says, “I’ve got someone up here I want you to meet.”

We traipse through ostrich fern and Joe-Pye weed. I’m taking in the splendor, but Dad keeps urging me on. A man in waders holding his fly rod walks out of the water and toward us. Six feet away, he reaches for my hand. I grasp his firmly.

“Martin,” Dad says, “I want you to meet Chico Alvarez. We’ve become friends. He’s been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” I’m confused.

“Meester Van Buren,” Chico says with a heavy Mexican accent, “your papa told me you would come. Said he had no doubt.”

The beauty of the area distracts me. “What? Dad said I’d come?”

A rainbow trout jumps twenty feet ahead of us. Where’s that fly rod?

He’s still pumping my hand. “Meester,” he says, “I should explain. That bullet you took back there on Fifth Avenue, well… It came from my Ruger 9.”

“What!”

“See, I was aiming at my supplier—he was out to kill me. You stepped in the line of fire. And, at the same time, the dude’s bullet hit me. I lasted two days.

“It was the evening of the second day in the hospital, a chaplain came to me. ‘Chico,’ he said, ‘God’s forgiveness is there for you, but you have to ask.’ I did ask, and an hour later I took my last breath.”

My jaw drops. I’m at a loss for words.

“Meester,” he said, “will you forgive me—just as God did?”

“Of course, I will.” I grin. “But let’s get that fly rod. I just saw a rainbow.”

            Enjoy the journey

                       Eldon

Think You Might Wright A Book? – Are You Kidding?

Think you might wright a book?

Are you kidding?

I hear it all the time. “Eldon, I’ve been thinking about writing a book.”

How should I respond to that? Most people think they can just sit down at a computer and type out 80,000 words that readers will wait in line to buy. They are sure they will become instantly famous. They start searching for that big house of their dreams, thinking about that new sports car they’ve always wanted.

Hold on, Mr. Writer-wanna-be. If you really have a desire to write, start with a little poem to your sweetheart. Oh, and make sure you have a dictionary handy. This one would not impress:

You’re soft marshmellow face is o so buteful

But your inteligence defiantly is what I lick about you.

You fullfill me in every way.

I’ll always be commited to you untill the end of time.

 

Make sure your spelling is flawless! But there’s more to writing than correct spelling. Grammar (or bad grammar) can be just as telling. http://grammargirl.com/ is an excellent reference for new writers. Grammatically Correct by Anne Stilman is an excellent reference book for your desk.

If you hope to write a novel, before you start, buy all the books you can on the craft of writing fiction. I have dozens and still refer to many of them often. Here are a few of my suggestions: Writing for the Soul by Jerry B. Jenkins, The Plot Whisperer by Martha Alderson, and Dialogue, Techniques, and exercises for crafting effective dialogue. By Gloria Kempton. Characters, Emotion & Viewpoint, by Nancy Kress, and The Fire in Fiction, by Donald Maass. Until you’ve studied the art and craft of fiction, you have no business plunking out a lot of words that aren’t well-planned and well-edited.

While I’m on the subject of editing, a once-through read of your manuscript will never do. Hire a professional editor! And before you even think of sending your story to that editor, you should have read through it (and corrected mistakes) a dozen times. No editor wants to see a manuscript that is so full of spelling and grammar mistakes that it is difficult to even follow the story line.

Now, about your storyline: a novel has a definite sequence of events that must happen on the way to the big climax. In your books on the craft of writing, you will learn about Act 1, 2, and 3. Don’t deviate much from the placement in your story of those acts.

So, you still think you might want to write a book? First, learn all you can about the craft of writing. Buy all the books you can on the subject. Buy paperbacks, not e-books. You’ll need to refer back to them often, and it is easier to find what you need in a soft or hardcover edition than an electronic book.

But maybe I’ve missed the most important step. Before you begin your writing journey, read dozens of novels in your preferred genre. You’ll begin to see a pattern in the storylines. You’ll learn how dialogue is written. You’ll see how important it is to hook your reader quickly.

Writing an 80,000-word novel takes years of educating yourself on the craft. But don’t even think about writing a book if you’ve not read dozens, if not hundreds, in your preferred genre.

If that story is still burning in your soul, do the prep work and then make it happen.

 

Enjoy the journey,

Eldon

Connecting – Part #3 of 3

Connecting Again

It was a blustery Sunday morning. I figured I’d be alone. I zipped up my windbreaker, feeling the weight of the Glock in my left pocket. I knew the water was deep and the current swift, especially at the end of the pier. Even though it was mid-morning, the sky was dark. The water was blue-black, mimicking my troubled soul. Seagulls lined the top rail, annoyed that I was taking up one of their coveted spots.

I’ve wasted my life—graduated summa cum laude from Virginia Tech, married Miss Alabama… then got hooked on heroine, lost my job, lost our beachfront home on Pawleys Island, lost my wife—and lost my dignity. I wound up driving the big rig for C.R. England—until I flunked my pee test. Now, no one will hire me. I have no friends. I see no point in trekking through more mistakes.

The crashing of the waves against the pier deafened any thoughts I could have had of turning back. Just as I started to pull the Glock from my pocket, I heard a voice from maybe twenty feet away. “Hey, buddy, what makes you sure that’s gonna end it?”

I turned and saw a guy in faded jeans and a Carhartt jacket, carrying a Shakespeare Ugly Stik. What? He thinks he’s gonna catch anything out here with that little freshwater rod?

He walked toward me. “End what?” I said.

“I see that gun, dude. And you sure ain’t out here fishin’.

Dangit! Why’d he have to show up?

“You know you’re makin’ a big mistake, man.” He walked up to me, stuck his hand out, “I’m D’Angelo, but you can just call me Dee.”

I stuffed the Glock to the bottom of my pocket and offered my hand. “I’m Tom— Hey!” I said. “I know you from somewhere. You a driver?”

“Naw, if you mean like a truck driver, that would be a no. Is that what you do?”

“Did.”

As soon as our hands met, I remembered where I’d seen him. “You’re that guy who pulled me out of my burning truck last year over in Dothan.”

He grinned, “You sure ‘bout that?”

“Yeah, you were saying, ‘Don’t worry, buddy. We’re getting’ you out.’” He didn’t respond, just looked out over the angry waves. “Man, I’d remember that face anywhere. You saved my life.” I realized I had a Vice-Grip hold on him and was pumping his hand up and down.

“Tom…” His eyes had turned down to our extended handshake. “Tom, let’s talk about that Glock in your pocket. Whatcha doin’ out here with that thing?”

“Well, Dee, I could ask you the same thing. That wimpy Ugly Stik ain’t gonna work on the fish out here.ˮ

His head tilted back. He looked up at the dark sky, then back at me. “Quit stallin’, Tom! This ain’t no game. You were ‘bout to blow your brains out, and you know it.”

I pulled my ball cap down. My chin started to tremble. “Okay,” I said, “you got me.”

I looked up. Our eyes met again. There was another time…

“Wait… You were also that guy in the suit and tie sitting next to me on that flight from Atlanta… the one… Yeah, the one with all that turbulence—passengers bouncing from side to side in their seats. I thought that plane was gonna break up any minute. I think you saw my knee bobbing up and down and my hands clamping down on the armrest.”

He looked away. Why wouldn’t he want to admit it? What’s he hiding? He shook his head and glanced at the sky.

“I remember. You kept tellin’ me to chill. Said you’d been through those kinds of storms before. Said we’d be okay—but I didn’t believe you.”

The guy moved closer, eyes drilling through me. He touched my shoulder. It was the oddest feeling. As soon as he did, shame hit me like a howitzer. My knees buckled. Flashbacks of all the crap I’d ever done penetrated my mind and fast forwarded through forty years of wrongs. His hand was still on my shoulder. Something was happening. I felt a powerful connection I can’t explain, almost like a warm blanket sheltering both of us. A tear oozed from my eye. I knew there would be more.

I squatted down right there in front of him. My head between my knees, crying like a two-year-old.

For the first time since I was a child, I poured my heart out silently to God. My friend was kneeling beside me, his head now resting on my shoulder. Any other time that would have been distracting, even annoying, but now… Now it was a comforting connection with a trace of deja vu.

I stood up and wiped my eyes. Suddenly the sky lightened, sun washed over us, the wind stopped, and my tense muscles relaxed. He grinned at me. I started pulling my windbreaker off, thinking I would lay it over the rail. Instead, I folded it up tightly around that Glock. With my left hand, I raised the bundle in the air and pitched it out across the waves. A seagull flew overhead.

I turned to thank my friend. I looked down that long pier to my left, then to the right.

He was gone.

Enjoy the journey

 

Eldon

Eldon Reed ©2015

Connecting – Part #2 of 3

Disconnect

I remember only some of what happened immediately after the impact. But I do recall some dude pulling me out of my burning truck. I’d been hauling a load of logs out of Dothan. One of them so called smart cars had pulled out in front of me. I hit the brakes hard, and the rest is history. My front bumper devoured the not-so-smart tiny two-seater. There is no way the driver could have survived.

They say it looks as if my brakes locked up and caught fire. It’s impossible to stop a big rig loaded with three tons of pine logs in a hundred feet. I swerved to try to miss the car. Tie-down chains broke, and I lost the load. It caught fire. Now I’m lying here in some hospital with burns over my lower body—could have been worse if that dude hadn’t pulled me out.

Sometimes I wish he hadn’t. My life’s been self-destructing for the past two years. It all started with the OxyContin pills. My prescription had run out, so I started buying them off the street. That eventually morphed into heroin.

I lost my high paying job, my big house on Pawleys Island and my wife left me. No one would hire me, even though I’d graduated summa cum laude from Virginia Tech. Finally got a job driving the big rig. I somehow managed to pass the drug test. I guess they never checked my record.

A guy in dirty jeans and a hoodie just now walked in my room. Wait… That’s the dude who pulled me out of my truck. Naw, can’t be.

“Tom, how are you doing this morning?”

I stared at his face. “Aren’t you the guy who pulled me out of my truck?”

“Yes, that was me. I just wanted to check to see how you’re doing.”

I searched his eyes; they were compassionate, gentle, even a bit mesmerizing. There was something about the guy I couldn’t quite label. Something more. Something familiar, but just beyond my reach of memory. “So, are you a fireman? EMT? I think I passed out right after you pulled me out of that inferno.”

“No,” he said, “I’m neither. I was just passing by and saw the accident. Two firetrucks were there, but I guess the fire wasn’t the main concern at first. An EMT was pulling a lady out of that crumpled little car. I saw the fire starting to billow up from the wheels into the cab of your truck. I knew there had to be a driver. After I got you out, another EMT took over.”

I raised my hand to shake his. He smiled and offered his fist. “Look,” I said, “You obviously know my name, but I didn’t get yours.”

“Just call me Dee.”

We talked for seemed like an hour or more. Odd, because no nurses or anyone came in the room during that time. He’s one of those rare individuals who is good at pulling a lot of talk out of people. And it worked on me. Things I’ve never discussed with anyone else, not even my wife—make that my ex-wife.

After he’d managed to piece my life together like one of those friendship quilts ladies used to make, his eyes drilled into mine “Tom, I think there are some other things you’re not telling me.”

“Look, you know a lot more about me than I know about you.” I think he could see I was getting a little agitated. I mean, who did he think he was, digging into my past and tricking me into exposing my drug habit. I felt the blood rushing to my face.

He backed away a bit. “Tom,” he said slowly, “take a chill pill, man.”

With those words, a picture flashed across my mind—lightning, turbulence, that plane from Atlanta. I closed my eyes, trying to remember.

Was he on that plane? Naw, couldn’t be. I looked up and started to ask him.

He was gone.

 

Enjoy the journey

                                                Eldon

Eldon Reed ©2015

 

Connecting #1 of 3

Connecting Flight

I was sitting in the window seat on a flight from Atlanta to Houston. The weather was picture-perfect when we took off from Hartsfield-Jackson at 11:55. But somewhere along the way the sky turned dark. We entered a black cloud with lightning bolts biting at the wing. The plane was bouncing around and my stomach echoed every upward and downward movement of the aircraft.

This wasn’t my first flight. My job had required a lot of travel—did until I got fired. My company handed me the pink slip after I came to the office high on OxyContin for the third time in a month. I’d tried to tell them it was a prescription for pain. Truth was, I had no prescription. I’d bought the stuff off the street.

So I was on the plane back to Houston, back to my beautiful wife. What would I tell her? She knew nothing of my addiction.

I’d gotten a job transfer to South Carolina six months earlier, and we’d just bought a million-dollar home on Pawleys Island—with a near million-dollar mortgage. Carrie was planning our move to her dream home.

The plane suddenly took a dive, much like my life had. I’d been in some less than perfect skies before, but this one was foul weather on steroids.

I hadn’t noticed the guy next to me until we came out of a downward dive. Maybe he had been in the restroom. He was wearing an Armani suit with a Vineyard Vines Bone Fish tie. While I was holding my breath and had a Vice Grip grasp on the armrest, he was engrossed in a game on his IPad. The plane leveled out and I relaxed a bit. “Sir,” I said, “doesn’t all this turbulence bother you?”

He looked up from his game. “No, why should it?”

His taciturn attitude annoyed me. A crude word slipped from my tongue. “Look… we’ve just been bounced all over the blazing firmament, and you’ve been sitting there playing games!”

He laid his IPad down and placed his hand lightly on top of mine, which was still gripping the armrest. “I don’t think I got your name—ˮ

“It’s Tom.” I could be as tight-lipped as he was.

“Well, Tom, it’s like this. Why worry about something you have no control over? Take a chill pill, man.”

I needed more than a chill pill. His hand was still on mine; tapping it lightly—disturbing for sure. I pulled my hand out from under his and pretended to massage my neck muscles. “Don’t they have any alcohol on this plane?”

“Not on this one, he said.”

Lightning split the sky and struck the left wing. The plane careened sharply to the right, then dropped fiercely. Both of my hands clamped down on my upper legs. My stomach was rock hard.

The plane continued to tilt to the right. I found myself leaning across the chair arm into this guy’s space. It seemed the plane was about to engage in a death roll. Twenty years of my life, along with all the bad decisions I’d ever made, passed before me in a fiery kaleidoscope of regret.

Plunging to the ground would be short. Hopefully no pain. Then I thought about Carrie. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to find out about my habit. Maybe she’d never know I got fired from my job. I ducked my head down between my knees, preparing for the big tumble to the ground.

The plane leveled out and eventually blue sky appeared through my window. I flopped back in the seat, my head slammed against the headrest. But relief was fleeting. A mountain of guilt ushered back in. How did I go from graduating summa cum laude from Virginia Tech and marrying Miss Alabama to being hooked on painkillers and losing my good job?

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Tom, you alright?”

For the first time, our eyes met. The guy was suddenly more than a fancy suit and tie. An instant bond seemed to be forming. Odd, because I’d made up my mind I just really didn’t care for him.

I took a breath and finally managed to say, “Yeah. I think so. But it’s more than just this plane that’s in a lot of turbulence.”

He raised one eyebrow, his eyes never leaving me. “Tom when life gets out of your control, you need to whisper a prayer, then sit back, relax and allow the Big Man upstairs to take the wheel.”

Yeah, right! Talk is easy. I glanced down at my tight fists and immediately back toward my seatmate. The chair was empty. I looked up and down the aisle.

The man was gone.

 

Enjoy the journey

 

Eldon

 

Eldon Reed ©2015

New Year’s Resolutions

 

New Year’s resolutions – who keeps them?

An author friend of mine recently posted that instead of making “resolutions,” why not call them a bucket list for the new year. I like that. Calling them resolutions just places demands on yourself to accomplish them. A bucket list is simply a list of things you hope to accomplish.

I’ve never given much thought to New Year’s resolutions. I guess I just decide each day to do what I want for that day. For me, it’s a bit like the AA theme: to take it one day at a time. Most daily tasks I accomplish; some never get done.

So, why place demands on yourself that you probably will never accomplish? Instead, make it your “wish list,” or as she calls it, “bucket list.” Chances are, if you think of it as a wish list, you’ll achieve more than if you think of it as resolutions or demands on yourself.

So, what might be on your list for the new year?

Here are some of mine: 1. I hope to make better choices with the food I eat. 2. I want to seek God’s will for my life, rather than always blindly diving into something. 3. I want my ears to be open – more than my mouth.

Okay, now those sound more like resolutions, but notice I did say “hope” and “want.” The words “resolve” or “determine” weren’t there.

Here is a list of specific “wishes” I have for the new year:

1. I want to finish reading Ted Dekker’s 1,593 page The Circle.

2. Go on the Caribbean cruise planned for the seniors at our church.

3. I hope to publish a book of my flash fiction stories.

4. Play miniature golf with friends at Hill Country Golf and Guitar, located on the outskirts of Austin.

5. Find a good Old West chuck wagon dinner in the Hill Country.

6. See Dickens on The Strand – Galveston’s jovial holiday celebration and street festival. 

Will I accomplish all of these in 2016? Probably not. But it is a wish list I can live with. I’m not committed to achieving them.

Now, I’d like to hear about your wish list for the new year. Don’t be too hard on yourself, but it doesn’t hurt to dream about things that may seem impossible. We have a big God! Nothing is impossible for him.

Enjoy the journey

                   Eldon

 

Daffodils and Green Bologna

Daffodils and Green Bologna

It was April 12th. The daffodils had popped their heads up to greet the early spring. Seventy-degree sunshine had brought out dozens of gardeners with their six-pack containers of little tomato plants. Most had saved plastic milk containers to shelter the tender seedlings from any late spring frost. An updated weather forecast called for a chance of rain with a possibility of a few snowflakes for the afternoon.

By mid-morning the wet flakes were already rushing down Main Street, pushed by the north wind that bit into the face and brought tears sliding down cheeks. So much for the nice spring weather, Mr. Weatherman.

A quick dash from the office door to my car, forty feet away, left me cold and drenched. “How can this be?” I yelled at the disc jockey who came to life in my car. His radio chatter monitored his surprise too. The white stuff was sticking to everything in sight, like a can of Christmas snow sprayed thick on a thin window glass.

Halfway to the post office, I decided the mail would have to wait for another day. Snow was coming down heavily, rocketed by the Arctic-like wind to the point of near total whiteout. Oncoming cars appeared in my vision only seconds before they passed to my left. Center striping was impossible to see.

I’d been in Texas Panhandle blizzards before, but this one had come on so suddenly no one was prepared. Coats had been left at home. Gloves and mittens were long since stashed away and forgotten.

Back at the office, I stood shivering as I waited for Mr. Coffee to drip out a full pot of the hot black liquid. Drops of melted snow dripped from my hair.

An hour later, the first reports of the effects of the storm came in. The roof of the Revco Drug had collapsed under the weight of snow. A sixty-year-old man had suffered a heart attack while walking from a neighbor’s house one block away. Phone lines were down. The tiny Texas town was immobilized by the storm and muffled by the howling wind.

Thoughts of closing the office and sending my six employees home were too late. Already a drift had formed in the parking lot blocking all of our cars. Incredible! Thirty minutes ago that drift didn’t exist. Since each of us lived on the other side of town, it became evident we were stuck in the office.

At least we had heat, a couple of couches in the lobby, and a fridge full of a variety of brown bag delicacies in several stages of ripeness and mold. We had a television. We had a coffee table loaded with multiple volumes of Better Homes and Gardens and last year’s Newsweek. No Field and Stream and no Sports Illustrated.

“Not to worry,” I told the small group of female employees, “this can’t last, not in April.” I glanced at the calendar on the wall. One of the girls had turned it back to January.

At 1:23 in the afternoon the electricity went off, leaving the furnace inoperable. The coffee pot was quickly emptied. Without power, there would be no more. Two ladies tried to share a sweater. Teeth chattered. The blowing snow became no less intense, and a drift formed next to the door, trapping us in our newly formed igloo.

Green bologna for dinner and catnaps in a plastic chair never was my idea of an enchanted evening.

At 9:30 the next morning, the first snow plows worked their way down Main Street. I managed to force open the office door against the pressure of compacted snow. Under the porch in a brick planter, a cluster of seven daffodils peeped over a ten inch blanket of snow. How come they were so darn cheerful?

Eldon Reed ©2015

Enjoy the journey!

Eldon

Jean, the Bag Lady

Jean, the Bag Lady

 

The streets of New York have taken their toll on Jean Matthews. I’ve watched her go downhill over the years. Now, her greasy hair hangs long around her neck, framing a face that is red and chapped from the wind and cold. She pushes her cart loaded with all her worldly goods, protecting it as though it contained the crown jewels.

I’ve watched her for four years from my shop window. She apparently makes the same rounds every day, coming down Twenty-Fifth just past Epstein Cleaners at about nine-thirty. She always stops at the newsstand and reads for about ten minutes, or until the clerk runs her off. She never takes anything from the shops. The shop keepers all trust Jean; most of them just consider her a nuisance.

We’re not sure just what her cart contains. No one has ever seen underneath that turtle-green blanket tucked tightly inside the metal cart.

I’d guess Jean to be about sixty. Had I not seen her when she first appeared on the streets here, my guess would be ten years higher. Jean is not very stable on her feet, always holding on to her cart for balance. The stooped posture defies her true height. Her penetrating eyes will liquefy a heart. Who is she?

Twenty-Fifth Street has its share of street people. Most of them are dirty, uneducated, and rarely speak. But Jean is different. Her looks are deceiving. Lately I’ve taken up crossword puzzles between customers, and anytime I can’t find a right word, I wait ‘til Jean comes around. She’s a walking dictionary. I’m amazed. But, come to think of it, I’ve never seen her work her own puzzle. I asked her once if she had ever gone to college. “Oh, I’ve darkened a few classes in my life,” she quipped, “but that was a long time ago.”

Here she comes now. She always brings her cart in with her. Maybe she’s afraid someone will steal it while it’s parked outside, but it could be that it serves as a type of walker for her to hold on to. Usually I’ll have doughnuts out and ready to share with her, but not this morning. The delivery boy beat her to them.

“Good morning, Jean. Sorry, but Danny beat you to the doughnuts.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Danny’s a little on the skinny side anyway. He needs them a lot more than I do. I’ll just be on my way. See you tomorrow.” But I thought I detected disappointment in those beautiful brown eyes of hers.

As she started to walk out, Mrs. Devan opened the door for her, “Good morning, Jean. Here, let me help you with that cart through the door.”

“No thanks,” Jean said with a bit of a rude tone. “I can get it just fine,”

That was unlike her. Jean’s always been friendly enough. After she was out the door, Mrs Devan walked up to my counter. I was curious. “I didn’t know you knew Jean.”

“Oh, gosh yes. Jean and I were roommates at Vassar.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Jean attended Vassar College?”

“Yes, Jean graduated Cum Laude in nineteen eighty-seven. She married a physician and, until five years ago, was a member of the Long Island Country Club. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

In a way, I could believe it, but still I was shocked. “You know,” I said, “she’s never talked to me about her life, but I knew the lady carried more around than what’s in that cart. She’s a brain when it comes to crossword puzzles.”

“Oh yes, poor thing, she’s a brain alright. That’s the one thing she has managed to hang on to.”

“So, what happened?”

Mrs. Devan looked back toward the door to make sure we were alone. “Jean, like I said, married a doctor about thirty years ago. Her life was full of dinner parties, sequined gowns, political rallies—you name it, the Matthews were there.”

I hoped a customer didn’t come in. I wanted to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Devan closed her eyes for a second. “I wish you could have seen her then. That stringing hair was always up in a perfect swirling bouffant. Her minks and foxes were the envy of every woman at the club. In their Seventy-Seventh Street penthouse, she was always the perfect hostess. Yes, Jean loved her parties. She loved her wine and cheese parties—but mostly, she just loved the wine. I guess she still does.”

Eldon Reed ©2015

Enjoy the journey,

Eldon

Dad’s Little Cricket

There he is! I’ve been looking for him for the last ten years. Dad abandoned us when I was fourteen—said he needed space. Space! Texas already has a lot of that.

Should I just walk in, stand in front of that table of men? Are they friends? Morning coffee buds? Or strangers who happen to be seated with him?

Confront him? No, that wouldn’t be good. I’d probably allow my anger to spray over all the tables and cause a scene.

Dad. Wow! After all these years. I have so many questions. Will he have answers? Does he know about Mom? Would he even care? Would he go to the nursing home and try to make amends? No, she wouldn’t recognize him; she barely knows me now.

He hasn’t changed much. Still wears a black hat—may be the same old greasy hat he wore when he and I would go fishing. Looks like he’s aged a bit; his shoulders are drooping. Dad used to stand tall, sure of himself, but he was kind, thoughtful. I know he loved me—always called me his little cricket. The name stuck, and now very few people know my real name. He never raised his voice to us. But that was then; what’s he like now?

I can’t believe I’m staring through the window at my dad. Elmer Siler, where have you been? And right here in Corpus Christi, where I just happened to come for a little vacation.

I’d needed a few days of respite. I see Mom every day after work. She used to welcome me, grab and hug me like she hadn’t seen me for weeks. But now she lies there in a blank stare. So I came down with my wife and kids for a few days just to get away. Corpus Christi, that’s a long three hundred miles just to get away.

My family’s still in the hotel room. I came down to grab a cup of coffee, and here I am, staring through the window at my long lost father. Wow!

Is he looking at me? Yes, I think he is. Does he recognize me? He should; I’ve changed little in the last ten years. I’ve even had one lady ask what grade I’m in! I’d laughed. A compliment? Oh, for sure! But my wife didn’t think it was funny.

I just now realize my hands are tented in front of my face. I’ve prayed for this since the day he left, but now I don’t know what to do. When anger infiltrates love, it leaves confusion. Would he be just as confused as I am?

Has he been in this area all these years? Why Corpus? He had no relatives here. Why did he leave us? He seemed to love Mom. I never heard them argue. Why did he never write or call? He left the day of the murder of our neighbor, Mr. Dawson.

Oh, God! Did he do it? There was never an arrest. No, old Docile Dad could never…

He’s looking my way again.

I’m goin’ in!

As I walk through the door, my legs turn to Jell-O. My feet feel glued to the tile floor. A thousand thoughts rush through my brain like bullets from the automatic pistol Dad and I used to target practice with. Will I even be able to speak—assuming I can move?

Breathe, Cricket Siler!

I slowly take a breath. Then another. My heart wants this. But my clenched fist—is that anger or fear?

He isn’t smiling. The guy sitting next to him is ignoring him. Oh, Dad, you need a hug. Where have you been all this time? I sure could use your support right now. How I’d love for you to call me your little cricket again, even though your little cricket is now six-foot-two. I feel a tear oozing from the corner of my eye.

I have to do this. I stand straight, my shoulders up and my chest out. I force my right foot off the floor, take a step, walk over to the table. He still doesn’t acknowledge my presence. My heart sinks.

I pull up a chair from another table, turn it backward and place it between him and the guy holding his cell phone. “Mind if I sit here with you guys?” Dad looks at me like I’m Jethro Clampett breaking into the Governor’s Ball.

The guy to my right looked up from his Solitaire game and tipped his hat at me. “Mornin’,” he said, “I’m Jim.”

“Hello,” I said, “I’m Cricket.” Dad never looked our way.

The guy to Dad’s left asked him who he was going to vote for.

“Vote?” Dad said, “What are we voting for?”

The guy patted Dad on the back. “Elmer, it’s the presidential election. You gonna vote Republican, aren’t you? I’m voting for Dr. Carson, how about you, Elmer?”

Dad had a blank look on his face. He looked right at me, expressionless, and then turned back to his friend. “Naw,” he said, “I think I’ll vote for that movie actor. What’s his name?”

“Elmer,” his friend said, “there is no movie actor running for president this time.”

I saw Dad’s lips tighten. Then, in a very loud voice, he said, “Yes there is! Reagan! You know, the cowboy—played in some darn good Westerns. I’ll be voting for him!”

His friend patted him on the back again and smiled. “Okay, Elmer, Reagan would be a good choice.” The guy looked around Dad at me and winked.

My chest caved in. I closed my eyes.

Enjoy the journey!

Eldon

 

Eldon Reed ©2015

Photo: Carl Soerens