David Nelson Nelson's Blog, page 7

Fifty Coats of Grey: A Spoof

Fifty Coats of Grey
The crunching of the gravel under her tires was muffled by the sounds of the trailer skirting flopping in the wind. Ana was looking for the exquisite bed & breakfast in the Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee called Abode & Beyond. She was to meet Christian Grey for a romantic weekend.
Instead, she was lost. The moisture on her lip was not from thoughts of some sexual seduction, but from the sweltering heat and heavy air that hung in that holler. She drove there by mistake. She was lost. The road narrowed as she approached the trailer owned by the local small town drunk.
There was no place to turn around on that graveled pathway. Instead, she was forced to negotiate the Mercedes past weeds that lapped against her windows and over rotted limbs that lay in the lane. She wondered if Christian would be upset if she scratched or dented the new car he bought for her a couple weeks prior.
She was reminded of the Burma Shave signs that once dotted America’s highways when she was about one hundred yards away from the grey trailer. One read, “Yankees and strangers will be shot on site.” Another hand-written posting was painted in red. “Killer dogs bees up ahead.” Ana wiped her lip and came to a complete stop to read a sign that was broken and hung sideways. She tilted her head sharply to the left and downward to read it. “Get yer ass out a cheer now.”
The fighting roosters screamed from their cages and the snarling pit bull dogs slobbered on the car’s fenders when they circled the vehicle. The dogs weren’t phased a bit stalking over the thousands of empty Bush beer cans that littered the drive. They were waiting for a leg to touch the ground so an attack could begin.
The rapid whopping sound from the loose skirting disappeared when the gun blast was fired. Ka-boom! It was a twelve-gage shotgun that he fired from the rotted, wooden porch landing.
Uncle Bubba Bobby held the weapon propped against his right hip and kept it pointed upward. He reached into the left pocket on his bibbed overalls and grabbed a half-empty beer. After chugging the remaining contents he let out a loud belch that made the rooters jump with fright.
One of the pit bull dogs yelped when it was hit in the head by an empty and crushed beer can thrown from the lopsided landing above. Bubba Bobby belched again. “Just who the hell are you? Why are you on my property? Are youins from the county again?”
Ana had to stretch upward to reach the partially opened car window. Through the two-inch opening she yelled out, ”Excuse me. I’m lost. I’m looking for Abode & Beyond. Can you help me?”
Lowering his weapon toward the ground Uncle Bubba Bobby stepped down off the wobbly porch. He tried to kick one dog in the side to make a path away from the car’s front door. He leaned forward toward the narrow opening of the window and smiled through the gaps that once contained teeth. “What’san abode? I ain’t never heard of no such. It was a bad ideal for youin to drive up here in that purdy car. Lucky fer you that y’all didn’t stir up a waspers nest in the ground.”
Ana felt uncomfortable with Bubba Bobby’s eyes glaring at her cleavage seen through the opening of her blouse. Some fifteen-minutes earlier she had unbuttoned the top button in anticipation of seeing Christian. Her motive was to tease him when they first embraced. Now, she was being ogled by an old, shirtless codger who had globs of fat hanging out the sides of his overalls.
“Um, um the place I’m looking for is a bed and breakfast. The name of it is Abode & Beyond. It’s somewhere off Tuckaleechee Road. Do you know of it?”
Bubba slapped his left thigh and gave out with a cackle. “Why, heck,purdy lady, I’ll fix y’all some breakfast and you can sleep rat cheer fer the weekend if youins want to. Now, now don’t get scared, I’s justa joshing with ya.”
He wiped his nose with his left forearm and opened another beer. “Did ya see Troutfish Terry’s business out on the highway? It bees called, “Used Tires & Jesus Sayings Carved On Wood.” Tuckaleechee is that thar road next to Troutfish’s store.
Ana touched the electric window switch and lowered the glass just far enough that she no longer had to strain to talk through the opening. “Well, my friend Christian flew in yesterday in his helicopter. He said if I got lost I could call him and meet him where he landed. Do you know where he might have landed? Maybe I could find that easier.”
“Why, hell fire, lady there ain’t no cell phone service back in these here parts. I heared a chopper yesterday. I figered somebody was a being hunted for pot plants or some hiker needed saved. Speaking of saved, are youins saved? Have y’all found Jesus,” He asked and pointed to a sign at the front of his trailer.
Ana peered through the windshield and squinted. There was a three-foot wide by five-foot long sign with the Ten Commandments printed on it. A few feet away was a sign that read, “Jesus Is Lord.”
Her stare was interrupted when Bubba Bobby spoke. “I gots me a regular phone inside and you bees welcome to come in and call your friend if ya wants to.” He crushed the empty can and winged it at one of the dogs that darted to the left and missed getting hit. The can lay unattended with the others. “Hey, what do ya think about my paint job on the ole homestead? It must be about the fiftieth time I painted it. I always use grey. It’s purdy, ain’t it?”
Ana pondered Bubba Bobby’s offer to use the phone. She place her hand on the car door handle and… (To be continued)
Questions to consider:
·      Will Ana fall in love with Bubba Bobby?·      Will Christian rescue her and buy the property in order to convert it into an aluminum recycling plant?·      Will Ana be saved and find Jesus at the “Second Baptist Church of Hell Fire and Condemnation?”Stay tuned for the continuing saga.

Thanks Dubuque Iowa Roots Members

What I Learned About Book ToursAndThanks Dubuque Roots Members



I returned to my home in Tennessee after a 4,000 mile “Iowa Book Tour.” This event was a success on many levels and I owe a world of thanks to numerous members of the Face Book Community I founded – Dubuque Iowa Roots. There were many things I learned about book tours.
The first thing I learned was that Book Tours require a team effort from many caring individuals. After months of planning, more calls and emails than I care to count and several planning sessions I traveled to several cities in Iowa. Pamela Breiner Schumacher helped me with the overall event securing many sites outside of my hometown - Dubuque. Teresa Behnkewas responsible for the Dubuque area. Patricia Keysorganized the Tipton event while Sue Nelson held a private program in her home. Thanks so much to each of you.
Marketing was a huge part of encouraging others to attend. Dick McGrane from “McGrane In The Morning” on Super Hits 106.1 interviewed me several times. Thanks also to Anthony Frenzel from the Telegraph Herald and Mike Ironside from Dubuque 365 who reported about my event. Pat Keys wrote an article for the Tipton Conservative and I was mentioned on WHO Radio in Des Moines. The folks at the East Dubuque Library placed my name on their outdoor sign and I was mentioned in numerous printed pieces in Des Moines.
Many Dubuque Roots members helped me by sharing my posts with their followers. Several of you attended my shows – some of you came to two and three events. Thomas Jochum, Donna Sand McCabe, Pam Schumacher and I had a great visit over lunch in Des Moines. Visiting with Frank Schumacher was especially nice after his cancer treatments. Tom Schweikert enjoyed “The Shade Tree Choir” T-shirt I gave him with the name “Bear” embroidered on the front. Tom was the character “Bear” in the book and is on the front cover of my book PALS: Part One.
Meeting with new and old friends was just as important to me as the individual events. I especially enjoyed my visit with Terry and Deb Strub, coffee with Connie Boesen and lunch with Frank Bisek who will be moving to East Tennessee soon. Visiting with Evie Schweikert was important to me. She too was mentioned in my books about growing up in the North End of Dubuque. She is Tom’s mother.
The last time I saw Sarah Sutton was at the State of Iowa Junior Olympics when I was seventeen. She was driving the motorcycle we rented while I rode bitch holding on to her purse. We missed a turn and wrecked the bike. We slammed into a brick wall. She couldn’t participate in the meet because she broke her arm in two places. Sarah was at my event that I taught at the University of Dubuque. She then followed me to other events as well. Sarah used her background with the movie industry to offer leads for me to contact people in Hollywood to help promote my book as a movie.
My book tour re-affirmed to me that everyone has a story. My new friend, Al Hakawson had an incredible story to share about his life. He did this at my last event. He even had me autograph the “Shade Tree Choir” T-shirt he bought at one of my programs.
“Boone” Whipp was a member of the Sauk/Fox Tribe whose mission in life was to prevent suicide among Native Americans. He too had great insight about suicides to share with the group. I met him in Mason City.
I met James Stordahl in Oskaloosa. He wrote books about being bi-polar and told his story to the group at the Book Vault. James said he enjoyed my honesty about my stories dealing with child abuse. He said it encouraged him to tell others his story. He and his wife drove over two hours one-way to meet me. Just today we communicated about his books.
In Tipton, Iowa I met a lady who worked with the Iowa Department of Children’s Services and another who was a corrections officer at a youth facility. They both told me they appreciated me explaining tips on working with abused children.
Everywhere I went people had stories to share with me. Many men and women had tears in their eyes when they told me of their past abuses as children. They said they felt free to share because of my books and my programs. Based on crowd reactions and comments, I suspect I touched a few hearts and minds.
Every room fell silent when I played the song sung by Dubuque Roots member, Mick Yaeger. The song is called “The Shade Tree Choir” and can be found on You Tube. They all loved ya, Mick. Mick wrote the song along with Steve Williams from Nashville.
On a lighter note, I performed my Cowboy Comedy Show at various venues. Naturally, I dressed in cowboy clothes - at least most of the time. In Mason City, I thought I was there to speak about Child Abuse. So I wore a shirt and tie. I quickly realized the folks were in attendance to hear cowboy stories. I battled the severe cold and blizzard-like conditions to set up for the wrong program. I guess I could have used an assistant. Yep, so I told them all to pretend I was just off the range and not out of the office. They loved the show.
Myrtle – in Preston, Iowa liked my cowboy show. She was 88 years old and came out to hear me - despite the temperature being nine degrees with high winds. What a trooper!
At the East Dubuque Library I told the story from my book about stealing pop bottles from the back of Huey’s Confectionary Store on East 22nd Street. We’d take the bottles into the front of the store and cash them in so we had enough money to go swimming at Municipal Pool. Little did I know that Huey’s two daughters were in the audience. That was too funny. I also told a story of being a non-Catholic heathen. One of Huey’s daughters told me later she was a nun. That was even funnier. She told me I owed her money for all the pop bottles I stole. I didn’t pay her.
I gave away 85 of the books I wrote about about stress management as a gift to all that attended my programs. I could have given away twice that number if I had them.
The last time I saw Werner Hellmer was when we ran track together at the University of Dubuque. He was a long distance runner and I was a sprinter. What a nice surprise to see him at the Dubuque Library program. He wanted to buy copies of all my books including, PALS: Part Two but I was sold out. He will order at my web site.
Julie and Jerome Griffin took me to buy cheese in Wisconsin followed by a visit to a pub out in the countryside. I got my butt kicked playing cribbage with my childhood friend, Bryan Mihalakis at the Lux Club. I saw my buddy, Denny Garcia from the Man Cave and met Charlie Oeth who came to Dubuque from the Nashville region. I met many others from Dubuque Roots who have come to be friends of mine. Some included: Jan Schweikert, Charlie Troy, Linda Culbertson, Warren Haas, Lynn Dolterand Debbie Fondell Fath – among others.
Professor Amy Ressler, Director of Fine & Performing Arts at the University of Dubuque and I met after I taught two of her classes. Amy and I will work together to create a play based on my book, “The Shade Tree Choir.”She expects it out in 2016. Sounds like a big party in the works. Of course by 2016, y’all may have to come get me out of the nursing home.
And so, folks this event was made successful by all of us. Each of my readers, Dubuque Iowa Roots members, media, friends and community who came out to support me had a hand in spreading the word about child abuse. I’m already working on a tour in Washington State in the spring.
I also am busy writing two more books. One is a book of “love” poems and the other a collection of short stories about Dubuque and Tennessee. They will be out late spring, 2015. If you’re interested in updates, send me an email. tncowboypoet@gmail.com

Thanks again folks.
http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU
http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70
www.cowboycomedyshow.com
www.davidnelsonauthor.com

www.cowboycomedyshow.com

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Day My Little Boy Ran Away

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Day My Little Boy Ran Away: “The Day My Little Boy Ran Away” “Suddenly my tiny hands burned as I was torn away from my fence perch while talking with our...

The Day My Little Boy Ran Away

“The Day My Little Boy Ran Away”
“Suddenly my tiny hands burned as I was torn away from my fence perch while talking with our neighbor Fritz. Earlier, I had climbed all the way to the top square of the chicken-wire fence so I could look Fritz in the eye. It was his fence and he never seemed to mind me climbing on it. But it sure enough pissed off my dad, Bushy.              
My fingers were still stinging when I heard the old man say, ”Goddammit! How many times have I told you not to climb on that fence? Get your ass upstairs.”
I knew I was going to be beaten again. Already crying, I looked back at Fritz for some redemption. He turned his back on me and walked away. I cried louder when I went inside hoping Ma would save me. She said nothing but set her beer bottle down on the kitchen table and belched. I cried louder and looked right at her. She turned her head and continued to watch television. I thought about those two adults, two grown-up people, who did nothing to save me and protect me, as I climbed the steps to my bedroom.
I heard Dad taking two steps at a time and most distinctly, heard him removing his belt. I was begging for mercy In fact, I was crying so loud all the neighbors must have heard me, and yet none came to my rescue. Dad shoved me to the floor so he could get long swings and pulverize me, not with the leather end, but with the buckle end of his belt.
My fingers no longer hurt from being ripped off the fence. Now, it was the pain of chunks of skin being torn away from my forearms as I protected my face. I felt my ribs crack when he kicked me with his work boot. I stopped crying instantly. I could not breathe. I was curled in a ball and did not care what happened next…”
Excerpt from “The Shade Tree Choir” by David Nelson
I was six years old when that incident occurred. Punishment like this was a regular occurrence until I was seventeen years old and had graduated from high school. This step toward independent living, away from the abuse, was my ticket to freedom. I left the house right after graduation. I remember it like it was yesterday. Children who are physically or emotionally abused remember many events exactly. There are other situations we force ourselves to forget. Sometimes later on in life, we remember in startling detail.
That day is clear in my mind for it was the exact time in my life that the little boy inside of me experienced genuine abandonment. Neither my neighbor nor my mother came to my rescue. That was the day the boy inside me ran away and hid. That was the day I knew I was on my own. It’s odd how one can actually pinpoint an event that has haunted him or her for life.
Fear of being abandoned is a common thread among abused children and adults whose parents were alcoholics. In my case, both of my parents were alcoholics and Ma was mentally ill with bouts of incapacitating depression.
Sadly, many adults who were abused as children have trust issues and won’t allow others to get too close to them emotionally. They may have difficulty sharing feelings, communicating openly or hiding behind a wall due to a fear of insecurity. Many formerly abused children will feel subconsciously, “If my own parents didn’t love me, then who will?”
Consequently, such individuals can have problems with interpersonal relationships. Some adult victims may try too hard to keep an attachment and in the process smother their partner. The abused person may try as hard as they can so they won’t lose their partner. They know the awful pain of feeling abandoned. Some adults waffle between the two reactions.
Each time a child is abused a pathway is set down in the brain as a life experience. The child may interpret the beatings as “deserved.” Because, after all, it’s the parent who is “all-knowing” and the one administering the punishment. The child then interprets the entire scenario incorrectly. When the child is abused repeatedly, the neuro-pathway becomes strong and leads to an inaccurate belief system. They may feel deserving of abuse, develop low self-esteem and live life being sad all the time. Some women accept verbal and/or physical abuse from their spouses – “because they feel they deserve it.”
Research shows that abused children have decreased serotonin, increased dopamine and increased testosterone. These chemical reactions have been linked to depression, anxiety and ideations of suicide. Many psychiatrists are of the belief that medications will stabilize the patient. Some psychotherapists believe “talk therapy” is the answer.
The adult may live life from the viewpoint of “I deserve to be beaten” – which translates into “I’m a failure.” Many abused children grow into adults with low self-esteem. Others take the opposite approach and spend their lives trying to prove the ghosts of the past wrong.
Those who refuse to accept that they were, or are, deserving of abuse often become over-achievers. These people will live their lives trying to prove to the ghosts of the past that they are indeed a good person and did not deserve the punishment they received.  I fall in this latter category and am thankful that I took that path. However, that aggressive lifestyle often leads to one of high anxiety and stress. I’ve written about Stress Management in other blogs of mine.
According to the National Child Abuse and Neglect Data Systems, in 2012, thirty-one children died each week from abuse, in the United States just alone. Thirty percent of States do not mandate legal representation for children in abuse proceedings. A review of relevant literature reported one research study that showed adults who were abused as children suffer from depression, anxiety, emotional behavior issues, suicide ideation and actual attempts at suicide.
My belief is that, the more we discuss the issue, the more we will help children who have been abused. Years ago it was taboo to even mention the term “mental illness.” We now know that clinical depression is a form of mental illness. I, for one, am pleased that society is finally talking about the issue. The tragic suicide of Robin Williams and unfortunately, the many school and workplace shootings have brought mental illness to the surface.
Personally, keeping the disease at bay has required considerable effort on my part. I continue to lead a life of never sitting still and having at least one major project happening at all times. I focus on that positive activity and that helps keep the doors of depression from opening. One of the problems with the disease is that people with the disease don’t look sick. That is why when someone commits suicide or kills someone, neighbors and friends are shocked.
I meditate daily, perform heavy exercises at the gym and begin each day with positive thoughts. A review of literature from the Mayo Clinic reported the benefits of meditation include:·      Increase endorphin production (that are responsible for the all-encompassing sense of happiness). ·      Increase in a chemical called GABA (which is responsible for stabilizing moods). ·      Increase in a chemical called DHEA (which has proven to decrease depression).·      Increase production of melatonin which is useful for proper sleep·      Increase production of serotonin which has a profound influence over mood disorder·      Boots HGH (a human growth hormone) which is also linked to a lack of motivation
Exercise creates many of the same benefits. Mental imagery has also been a useful tool for me. Research has shown many positive results from picturing yourself or a life event in a positive way. Elite athletes use this technique all the time. When I worked as a physical therapist I used to teach my patients the process of mental imagery. I told them every day to see or envision themselves walking again or using their hand or whatever the affliction was that I was trying to improve.
If you’re troubled by any of these psychological ailments, I suggest you speak with your physician as to the best approach for you. I simply show here what works for me. If it’s any consequence, there are numerous famous people who have suffered depression. Some of these include writer, Mark Twain, actor, Marlon Brando, astronaut, Buzz Aldrin, Athlete, Terry Bradshaw, world leader, Winston Churchill. As we know now, all walks of life are affected.
Another technique I use is to write. When I am creating, I’m too busy to dwell on any sadness. I have written books dealing with child abuse, reactions to the abuse and success despite the abuse. I wrote one book about how to manage stress. My web site is www.davidnelsonauthor.com
My life has been devoted to helping that sad little boy who was ripped from the fence and beaten; to the boy who ran away years ago seeking inner peace and to face life more fully.
I want to take him by the hand and teach him to suck the marrow out of life every day. Remember the Robin Williams movie, “Dead Poets Society?” Carpi Diem – Seize the Day. This is my mission.
For each of us the path to recovery is highly personal. Good luck with your own internal search. Peace.
Here is a link to a one-minute book trailer for “The Shade Tree Choir”http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Nelson Iowa Book Tour Final Schedule

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Nelson Iowa Book Tour Final Schedule: Nelson Iowa Book Tour: Final Schedule Part One: “The Shade Tree Choir- The Story Behind The Story” This program will center on ...

Nelson Iowa Book Tour Final Schedule

Nelson Iowa Book Tour: Final Schedule

Part One: “The Shade Tree Choir- The Story Behind The Story”
This program will center on my book about the child abuse I experienced growing up in the North End of Dubuque, Iowa during the 1950s and 60s. “The Shade Tree Choir” http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU has been described as, “A deep analysis of human relationships both positive and negative that contain a combination of tragic elements and subtle comedy.”
You will learn stories not in my book, coping skills and defense mechanisms I developed as a child in order to survive, my reactions to abuse, how I succeeded despite the past, how I learned to forgive and techniques I use to manage stress.
You will be exposed to stress management skills based on my years of research, practical usage and training others in my classes. The first 85 participants will receive a FREE copy of my out-of-print book, “Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About It.”
Monday, November 3rd, Tipton, Iowa Public Library, 5-6:30 P.M.Wednesday, November 5th, East Dubuque, IL Library, 6:30-7:30 P.M.Tuesday, November 11th, Denny’s Lux Club, Dubuque, IA, 6-8 P.M.Thursday, November 13th, The Book Vault, Oskaloosa, IA 7-8 P.M.Saturday, November 15th, Mason City, Iowa Public Library, 2-3 P.M.Monday, November 17th, Dyersville, IA Library, 12-1 P.M.Monday, November 17th, Preston, IA Library, 7-8 P.M.Tuesday, November 18th, Dubuque Carnegie-Stout Library 6-7 P.M.*  *Limited Seating

Part Two: “Cowboy Comedy Show”
I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. This honor, was given to me by our Governor and the General Assembly. I’ve performed across America. My web site is http://www.cowboycomedyshow.com/
I will be performing my one-man act  consisting of storytelling and cowboy poetry at the following locations open to the public:
University of Dubuque
Thursday, November 6th, Sylvia’s Coffee Shop, U. of Dubuque, Dubuque, IA, 12:15-1:30Friday, November 7th, Badka Theater, 3:30 -4:30*·      I will teach a class to the students in the Fine & Performing Arts Workshop about my work as a writer and a performer. Come join us if you wish to hear about my careers.

Wonder of Words Festival Des Moines , Iowa
Des Moines Central Library, Friday, November 14th, Noon- One P.M.

www.davidnelsonauthor.com
Songs written about "The Shade Tree Choir" http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70 http://youtu.be/oQApYp1S9O0

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "Farwood for Sell"

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: "Farwood for Sell": “Farwood for Sell” Corn, cottonseed or sunflower oils, lactose, salt, sodium diacetate, maltodextrin, malic acid, partially hydrogena...

"Farwood for Sell"

“Farwood for Sell”
Corn, cottonseed or sunflower oils, lactose, salt, sodium diacetate, maltodextrin, malic acid, partially hydrogenated soybean oil and sodium citrate were listed as some of the ingredients in Lay’s potato chips in the article I read on the internet while standing in line. My curiosity peaked about the ingredients when I watched the fella in front of me shovel them into his mouth. Well, most went into his mouth. Several fell to the tiled floor and were quickly smashed under the weight of his work boot. Poor fella must have been hungry. He couldn’t wait to pay for them, I guess. It was 9:08 A.M.
I had watched him snag the bag from the aisle by the beer cooler in the back of the store when I took my place in line to pay for my twenty-ounce coffee. Ten minutes earlier when I puled into the “Gas & Go” combination convenience store, gas station and diner, I knew this wasn’t going to go well. All I wanted was a cup of house blend, dark roast coffee. Then it was off to the gym for my workout.
There was not an empty place to be had in the parking lot. I parked next to one of the gas pumps behind a pickup and trailer filled with lawn mowers, gas cans and weed eaters. I nodded to the five guys standing outside the store smoking when I approached the door. To their left was a stack of bundled firewood and a sign. The sign read Farwood for Sell. Yep, not firewood – farwood; and not sale but sell. One guy was wearing a sweatshirt with the University of Tennessee logo on the front. I wondered if he wrote the sign.
My smile ran away when I opened the door. There was a line of patrons that started at the counter and snaked down one aisle, across another and ended at the beer cooler in the back. That was where my adventure began next to the potato chip fella.
I lifted my head to take a swig of coffee and noticed the “Chip Master” must have been in a hurry to get his breakfast. He apparently wore his little brother’s T-shirt to the store. The bottom of his shirt ended some five inches above what should have been a waistline. His hairy belly slopped over his blue jeans that wiped the floor with each shuffle he took toward the counter. I refused to stare at the crack of his butt directly in front of me. I turned my body to look away.
Patrons in front of me carried armloads of foodstuffs. I saw one guy cradling two bags of donuts, three bottles of water and two cans of Red Bull. I noticed people holding bottles of soft drinks, chips of all kinds, candy bars, crackers with cheese, and one apple. I stood so long I read the headline on the Knoxville Sentinel held by the woman two people in front of me.
My coffee cup was half-filled when I glanced at the lady’s butt. It was more pleasing to see than the fella directly in front of me. I smiled and wondered if stretch pants were back in style. They were gold in color and snug against her rump. She turned her head toward me to fix her hair and caught my stare.
I noticed every finger had a ring on it as did each of her toes. At first I was embarrassed that she caught me. But when she smiled and exposed her three teeth I knew she didn’t mind. My eyes dropped to her hand and wondered why she had a wad of bills in her grasp. The tattoo on the web of her hand read Mama.
There were sounds of distress from all of us standing in line and not seeming to move. There was throat clearing, heavy exhaling, coughing and grunting. People were shifting their weight from one foot to another. Some even starting shaking their heads. Yes, when I saw eye contact and shaking of heads I knew all the other folks were getting ticked at the only worker behind the counter.
Finally, I made the turn and swallowed the last from my twenty-ounce coffee cup. I tapped it against my thigh and watched. Suddenly, there was a unanimous “Oh” from those who saw the receipt machine run out of paper. The worker obviously felt the pressure from irate customers because she fumbled with the new roll of paper trying to insert it into the machine.
She snapped the lid closed and attempted to scan some fella’s package of “Goody Powder” and a coffee. The scanner broke. People burst into loud complaints. I smiled. A person can’t make-up this stuff. I had a grin exposing a full set of teeth and felt my ears move when I smiled. The employee smacked, slapped and tapped the scanner and finally it worked again. When she ended the transaction and attempted to print the receipt, the machine jammed. It was wadded up and stuck.
I thought at first it was a Sunday because I heard people talking out loud to God and Jesus. I quickly realized my error when I listened to the words after the deity comments. I laughed out loud. Indeed, I truly did. This was way too funny not to see the event in a comical way. And then it happened.
A guy three in front of me handed a lottery ticket to the employee. I have to tell you, that I don’t like waiting in lines for people who turn in lottery tickets. I no longer laughed. I said something under my breath, thinking it was Sunday.
The employee gave the ticket back to the guy and said she couldn’t scan it. Apparently, he didn’t scratch off the ticket properly. He reached into one pocket for a coin to finish removing the gray gum. He reached into the other pocket for a coin. Both times he came up empty. He slid his hand under the number twelve-gauge chain that connected his huge billfold to his belt loop. The leather case was stamped with a NASCAR emblem and he opened it looking for a coin. I ground my teeth. I wondered what the lady ahead of me would do because of her tooth loss. Bless her heart.
The employee opened the cash drawer and handed him a quarter. He scratched away with great intent. When asked if he wanted two dollars cash or another ticket, he crossed his arms and placed his hand over his lips to ponder such an important decision. My thigh was getting red from the empty cup slapping against it and my jaws were a bit tender.
“Oh, my God,” I said out loud when the guy walked around the other end of the counter. He was trying to decide which lottery ticket he wanted from the thirty-seven different types offered.
The employee handed him a ticket that read “Winners Never Quit”. He began scratching it with his fingernail before he reached the door. Finally, I was third in line and it was “Ms. Spandex’s” turn.
“Well, how much gas do ya want, Honey,” I heard the clerk ask.
“I rightly don’t know for sure. Last time it cost me forty-dollars to fill-up. But that was when gas was more. What do ya think I should do,” she asked through her tooth-less grin.
The employee shrugged her shoulders. The fella in front of me said out loud that he was twenty-minutes late for work. My right jaw hurt. The lady with the golden pants and rounded rump set the wad of one-dollar bills on the counter and began removing change from a tiny coin purse.
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine and your dollar change makes forty-dollars for gas, Darlin’.”
I shuffled two steps forward and watched the guy in front of me set an empty potato chip bag and three bottles of water on the counter. He handed the cashier a one hundred dollar bill. I swear he truly did. 
Holding the bill over her head she asked the guy, “Is this the smallest thing you have? I can’t make change. Hang on a minute.”
She locked the register and disappeared. Over in the diner was another employee who was obviously taking a break. Our employee bent over and spoke to the guy. His lips were pursed and his eyebrows frowned when he walked behind the counter. He moaned loudly when he bent over to open the safe.
While the male employee was opening the safe, the female slurped the last of her drink through a straw and returned the empty container to the counter. She faced me and gave me a look of frustration.
The fella in front me had his arm resting on the counter. I reached over it and held out my empty cup. “How much is coffee?”
I was told it cost a dollar, thirty-five cents. I handed her two, one-dollar bills. “Keep the change. Just keep the change.”
I tossed my empty cup in the trashcan outside when I left and overheard the guy wearing the University of Tennessee sweatshirt. “Hey Bubba, look at this. Somebody spelled sale wrong on this here farwood sign.”

I shook my head.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: How I Lost My Sanity Assembling a Shed

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: How I Lost My Sanity Assembling a Shed: The following story is from my book PALS: Part Two. Have you ever been frustrated trying to assemble various items? You’ll relate to...

How I Lost My Sanity Assembling a Shed

The following story is from my book PALS: Part Two.
Have you ever been frustrated trying to assemble various items? You’ll relate to my story.

“The Open Door Policy”
“Whoosh” went the airbrakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the driver walk towards my front door. Oh boy, I was excited. He was from Roadway Express and here to deliver my metal shed. A shed I intended to put to good use as storage in the pool area. But first I had to put it together.
“Where do you want this thing?” the driver asked.
I walked a fast pace in front of him, and pointed. “ Here, I’ll show you. Can you get it up here under the carport?”
He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “There’s no way my forklift will make it under here. But I’ll try to get it as close as I can.”
And the next thing I knew, the noise of the forklift starting, the loud tailgate dropping, and the racket from him loading my shed, brought out a couple neighbors and then kids on bicycles. Cars were lined up behind the semi because there was not enough room to pass. I just realized that it was 5:30 P.M. and the neighbors were coming home from work.
I felt the heavy thud on the cement as he dropped the back half of the palate and shed. The closest he could get to being under my carport was halfway. I signed the papers and turned to look at what lay in front of me. Cautious optimism fell over me and I swallowed a big gulp. I can do this thing, I said to myself. How difficult can it be?
Having been out of graduate school for three years, my thinking was still in the scientific mode. I learned to think that way because of my didactic training. I took the 147-page manual into the house, sat at the table, and began using my yellow highlighter leftover from my biostatistics class.
The first step was to take an inventory. Great. I thought. That makes perfect sense. That is logical. I could not contain my excitement, and after I finished supper, I decided to start my new project. It was only after I headed out the door that I remembered it was 7:10 P.M.
Earlier, I had skimmed the first forty-three pages of the manual and my highlighter was dry from everything I’d underlined. But that didn’t matter because the seven pages of inventory were cut and dried. Any idiot could follow those directions. Using a steak knife I sliced into the taped carton on all sides. I lifted the five-foot by seven-foot cover off and set it out of my way on the far side of the carport. That cover reminded me of a larger version of the donut boxes outside The Milk House in Dubuque. Those stolen donuts sure tasted great.
I turned on the porch lights and found the bags of screws, nuts, bolts, washers, miscellaneous parts, and unknown plastic pieces. I squatted with both knees bent, tightened my stomach, and lifted the first thirty-pound bag of fasteners out of the box. The second bag was not nearly as heavy.
I used the lid for a collection surface for all the pieces. I marked each lettered item on the lid and then placed the corresponding pieces next to it. I placed a check mark by each item in the manual. I was up to the stock letters AAAA when I finished inventorying the first bag. Thankfully, I had a piece of plywood leaning against the pool fence. I lugged the sap-soaked board under the carport to use as a collection surface for the second bag of fasteners. Weeks before I learned how well gasoline removes tree sap. After washing my hands in gas and wiping them dry, I lit a cigar and marveled at the project I would complete in a day. It was now 9:25 P.M.
Heat lightening, I thought as I opened my back door to go inside and get a cold beer. I stood in amazement and gulped a few swigs of beer. I wiped sweat from my face. I had never seen so many pieces to one single unit. And those were just the small pieces. I didn’t inventory the main parts. I used my cap to wipe the sweat from my bald head and went back inside to get a dry cap. The heat lightening continued.
The humidity was so heavy it actually felt moveable, like a person could move it with their hands and arms. Within moments my new cap and my shirt were soaked. Having a second beer and still looking at what lay in front of me, I decided the only thing to do was to attack. Something nudged at me though and I remembered thinking how impressive the frequent heat lightening was that night.
It was about an hour later when the flashlight quit for the first time. I looked everywhere for size D batteries in the house and found none. I found that when I banged the flashlight against the cement it would glow just long enough to find a piece or a part. The process slowed my progress but not my enthusiasm. I was sort-of having fun. I was no longer soaked from the humidity or heat. As a matter of fact, I remembered being somewhat cool from the drop in temperature and slight breeze. That felt nice.
Somewhere around 1 A.M., I felt a little puff of wind. I was reading the manual on or around page seventy-six. I had three sides of the shed assembled. It became quite difficult to balance those sides, hold a broken flashlight and to read instructions at the same time. The wind began to increase and I noticed how the sides made warbling sounds. As the wind increased so did the tin melody. I saw the illumination of a porch light being turned on at one of the neighbor’s houses. And then I realized: I was trapped in a three-sided metal snarl.
I used what little common sense I had and shimmied and shoved the contraption across the driveway. It sure did make a lot of noise scraping against that cement. I made it to the side of the house and propped one end against the house. Two more neighbors’ lights helped illuminate my work area. I went inside and returned with a mop. I used the mop to balance the other sides. The music from the sides whipping in the wind stopped.
When the first pine cone fell, but didn’t hit the ground because of heavy winds, I suspected I could be in trouble. I was reading the manual when I noticed a red stop sign around a boxed-in information piece. It read: ”Caution. Do NOT assemble in High Winds.”
The rains came whipping sideways, pine needles were flying through the air like darts in a tournament, and the entire packing crate was soaked from the downpour. The box top skimmed across the cement like a magic carpet. I chased it down my driveway after tripping on that damn flashlight. All the hardware was scattered throughout the box lid. Most of my lettering was bleeding beyond distinction from the rain.
I pulled the box back under the carport and secured it with the corner of the plywood. In doing so, I slid all the hardware off the wood. I went into the house to make a pot of coffee. It was 1:30 A.M. The storm passed about forty-five minutes later and I was blowing on my cup of coffee looking at the mess. I brought out an extension cord and adapters. I took three table lamps from the living room and plugged them into the outlets. Presto! It looked like Yankee Stadium lit up for a night game. I felt like telling my thoughtful neighbors I didn’t need their lights anymore. There were now five houses lit up and a few dogs barking somewhere.
I re-inventoried the pieces I could find and sat on a lawn chair trying to figure what to do. I analyzed, synthesized, and hypothesized. My next goal was to get that fourth side up and screwed down so the unit was secured. I then noticed a cartoon of someone smiling in the manual.
The caption read: “Congratulations. You have completed Part One. You only have four more parts to go. This should have taken a total of two hours to complete.” It took me eight hours. Eight hours. I am trying to make this story acceptable for all ages – so I will not write what I said. I went to bed. It was 3 A.M.
In our family, whenever we screw something up or go about an activity the wrong way, we refer to that as the Rick Factor. The term is named in honor of my brother Richard. He can go off like a rocket with any mechanical failure or any time things don’t go quite right. One time I saw him throw rocks at his car when it wouldn’t start. I watched him bend the new oven burner in two parts because he could not get it anchored correctly and smacked and cut his head on the oven door. As I lay in bed evaluating the previous eight hours or so, I smiled and called my project the Rick Factor. I promised myself that my next attempt to finish the project would be much better. I drifted off to sleep thinking of that damn flashlight.
7 A.M. came early for me, way too early. I had a fitful four hours of sleep and I dreamt I was on a magic carpet made of cardboard. During the ride, I avoided asteroids that looked like screws, bolts and pinecones. After waking, I made coffee and went back to my project. I stood under the carport evaluating all the pieces remaining to connect while I enjoyed my morning brew. I turned to go back into the house and noticed something odd. I saw five houses with their outside lights still burning. Wasting electricity, I thought.
I scraped the four-walled structure across the cement. It had been propped near the house and I needed it to be in the center of the carport. I heard a dog howl somewhere nearby. There was no wind like last night, so the structure stayed in place. I connected cross-brace AABC to its counterpart on the side at the hole marked JJKY. Using washer NNOP, I balanced the bolt, labeled GOGD and used nut labeled POOP to secure the brace. One down and seven to go, I thought.
A couple hours later I had the bracing complete and was ready for the roof panels. The next and last thing would be the installation of the doors. I noticed quite a bit of fine print on each page, but didn’t slow down to read all of it. I could see where everything was really going and was on a roll now.
It took two more hours before I finished the top and while the doors were confusing, I connected them without difficulty. I remember one place in which there was no hole drilled for my bolt. I almost drilled a new hole, but decided to step back a minute and I’m glad I did. I was trying to put the door on upside down. That would indeed have been a Rick Factor.
Now, I only had three pages left go. I was excited, happy, and having fun – right up to the point where I fell off the ladder and into the metal roof. I had been on the top rung of my ladder anchoring the panels. I had just one more panel to go and it was quite a stretch. I felt the ladder wobbling. I lost my balance and put a huge dent in the left roof panel (item number WWOW) with my elbow.
Now another part of the Rick Factor is the loss of patience when things don’t go quite like they’re supposed to go. We cuss! We throw things! We scream! We may even break stuff. I calmly dropped to the cement, walked into the shed, and with my fist, I hit that roof with all my strength. One factor about metal is that it’s near impossible to return it to its original shape after being bent. I learned that in summer school in physics class.
I climbed back to the top of the ladder and didn’t need to look far to see the damage. That panel had a pretty good-sized bubble projecting out. Ah, nobody will see it anyway, I thought. I covered every nut with special tape on the inside of the shed. This was to keep it from leaking. I was pretty proud of myself and celebrated by getting a beer and lighting a cigar.
Moments later I was blowing smoke rings across the carport and into the shed. I bit down on my cigar with my teeth and stood facing my masterpiece and closed the doors. “Son-of-a-Bitch!” I yelled. The doors did not meet!

 There was a three-inch gap. I bit my cigar in half and kicked the nearly full can of beer onto my plywood work surface. I threw a pair of vice grips, two screwdrivers, and a ratchet into the front yard. I let loose with a litany of cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. Have you ever noticed how many parts there are to a flashlight? I separated all of them with a few direct smashes against the driveway. All of them.
The neighborhood kids who were using my pool at that moment slammed into me, and sprinted out the gate towards their homes. My tantrum must have frightened them. They scattered in different directions like a nest of cockroaches when a light is lit in a dark room. I had forgotten they were using my pool. That same dog from the night before howled from all the commotion coming from under my carport. I yelled, I punched my fists into the air and finally screamed. THAT, my friends, is the Rick Factor!
It was two days later that I was calm enough to re-read the instruction book. I returned to the section about the doors. In the fine print appeared a stop sign logo that mentioned the exact way to connect the door panels. When I attempted to hang the door panel upside down, I had read the identifying letters incorrectly. All the M’s looked like W’s. As fate would have it, the door panel marked W was to be placed on the opposite site.
I gave some kid a dollar to look for tools in my yard while I removed the roof panel tape. Yep, I had to remove the entire roof, change the doors, and re-apply the roof - again. I finished just in time as several of my buddies began to arrive. They came to help carry the storage shed and place it along the fence inside the pool area.
We were all enjoying a beer except for Dan. He had not touched his. He was too busy inspecting the shed. He laughed. “Hey, Nelson why is there a bubble in the roof? Does that have something to do with physics also?”
PALS: Part Two is available with my other works at www.davidnelsonauthor.com Be sure to check out my book about child abuse. It’s called The Shade Tree Choirhttp://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU