Ronald E. Yates's Blog, page 92
September 12, 2017
When Does a Gap Become a Canyon? (Part 2)
Accomplished wordsmith William Safire once defined a gap between the generations as “a frustrating lack of communication between young and old, or a useful stretch of time that separates cultures within a society, allowing them to develop their own character.”
That’s a pretty good definition. But it doesn’t tell the whole story.
Generation gaps have no doubt existed on this planet since the first homo sapiens appeared about 200,000 years ago. However, the drastic differences that the term implies were not much in evidence until the twentieth century. Before that time humans were not very mobile. Young people typically lived near their extended families, worshiped in their childhood churches and often worked on the family farm or in a family business. In the 19th Century most people lived and died without traveling more than 200 miles from where they were born.
With the advent of television and movies, adolescents were exposed to cultural influences alien to their own families and cultures. Then came the 1960s. Civil rights, women’s liberation and the Vietnam War exposed a more serious chasm between young and old.
A study released recently by the Pew Research Center found younger and older Americans in 2017 see the world much differently, creating the largest generation gap since the tumultuous years of the 1960s. The study said Americans of different ages are increasingly at odds over a range of social and technological issues. That divide grew greater after the 2008 election, when 18- to 29-year-olds voted for Democrat Barack Obama by a 2-to-1 ratio. It continues to grow since the 2016 election.
Almost eight in ten people believe there is a major difference in the point of view of younger people and older people today, according to the independent public opinion research group.
The top areas of disagreement between young and old, according to the Pew Research Study, are the use of technology and taste in music. Slightly behind these areas of difference are listed the following:
Work ethic
Moral values
Respect for others
Political views
Attitudes toward different races and groups
Religious beliefs.
There is nothing new here. When I was a teenager Rock and Roll was considered “jungle music” and those who sang and played it were, in the minds of older Americans, little more than savages. Some radio stations wouldn’t play Rock and Roll. Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Jerry Lee Lewis were considered evil influences on the youth of the day.
The 1950s were probably the beginning of what we know today as a generation gap. Before then the closets of most teenagers resembled those of their parents. Not so in the 1950s. That decade brought a revolution in styles that pushed the envelope and actually continue to influence fashion today.
A lot of guys combed their hair into greasy Ducktails, wore skin tight jeans and shirts with the collars turned up. It was “the look” of the day.
Girls wore short-shorts, poodle skirts, pony tails, and, if you were lucky, did the “dirty bop” with you. (Believe me, it was tame compared what happens on the dance floor today).
So what’s the big deal about the widening generation gap of 2017 and how does it differ from the gap that existed in the 1960s?
First, the Pew Study said, the two largest areas of difference–technology and music–are less emotionally charged than political issues. The older generation is likely to be proud of the younger generation’s skill in using new technology rather than to view it as a problem.
As for the musical differences, each generation wants its own style of music, and the older generation generally can relate to that desire–even if most people older than 50 probably consider hip hop a form of discordant monotone chanting rather than vocal or instrumental sounds organized in some coherent sequence comprised of melody, rhythm and harmony.
In the other areas of difference, the Pew study reported, the younger generation tends to regard the older generation as superior to their own generation–clearly a difference from the 1960s with its rallying cry of “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.”
According to the study, all generations regard older Americans as superior in moral values, work ethic and respect for others. Why are older Americans regarded as superior in moral values, work ethic and respect for others? Does it have something to do with the way many children are reared today? If parents equivocate when it comes to teaching such values to their children then it is not surprising that a generation gap between young and old exists.
And who is at fault for that? The younger generation? I tend to think the fault rests with parents and those charged with educating the young. By the time they are adolescents it is most likely too late to instill in them the values that are revered by older Americans.
One common complaint I hear from older Americans about younger Americans is their reluctance to accept responsibility for their actions.
“It’s not my fault,” is heard all too often from the younger generation. That, however, is a dangerous trap, said Doctors Henry Cloud and John Townsend in their 2007 book (“It’s Not My Fault”) because it not only keeps them from overcoming the effects of all that they can’t control—like other people, circumstances and genetics—but separates them from a solution. And when they give away the ownership of their life, they end up losing the one opportunity they have to fulfill their dreams and enjoy the best life has to offer.
When I was growing up my parents and grandparents simply never endorsed my attempts to use the “blame game” for my mistakes, misfortunes and misdeeds.
“Stop making excuses,” is what I heard. Eventually I did.
I never felt there was a generation gap between my parents and me, perhaps because I respected them and they never gave me a reason not to. If there is an area that can be improved on with young people today that may be it.
Children may be grateful in the short term when parents refuse to impose rules of behavior and inculcate discipline in them. But in the long term I believe they are thankful–even if they may never admit it.
Learning to respect others, to honestly work for what you get in life and to live according to some variant of the Golden Rule (“do not treat people in a way you would not wish to be treated yourself”) may just be the unpretentious bridge that spans the gap between generations.
It certainly beats plummeting into the canyon.
September 11, 2017
When Does A Gap Become a Canyon? (Part 1)
In the past few weeks, two stories caught my attention. One decried the growing wealth gap between the young and old in America. The other highlighted the growing difference between older and younger Americans on issues such as social values and morality.
Should we be surprised by either of these stories?
I think not.
Let’s look at the wealth gap first. I will get to the Social Values and Morality Gap in Part 2.
A report issued by the U.S. Census Bureau said the wealth gap between younger and older Americans has increased to the widest on record, worsened by a prolonged economic downturn that has wiped out job opportunities for young adults and saddled them with housing, credit card, and college debt.
The typical U.S. household headed by a person age 65 or older has a net worth 47 times greater than a household headed by someone under 35, the report said, adding that the gap in wealth is now more than double what it was in 2005 and nearly five times the 10-to-1 disparity a quarter-century ago, after adjusting for inflation.
Why is this? Part of it is caused by the economic downturn, which has hit young adults particularly hard. As I saw when I was a Dean at the University of Illinois, more young people are pursuing college or advanced degrees, taking on debt as they wait for the job market to recover. Others are struggling to pay mortgage costs on homes now worth less than when they were bought in the housing boom.
But that is not the whole story. All of us have gone through hard times at one point or another. I can recall when mortgage interest rates were 19 percent and buying a house was simply out of the question. I can recall unemployment rates running between 7 and 9 percent and double-digit inflation–none of which made life much fun.
Perhaps it’s the way many in the so-called silent and baby-boomer generations lived and spent money. Without sounding like some old geezer, I should point out that when I was in my 20s, I didn’t have a credit card. I did have a gasoline charge card from Standard Oil, but the thought of charging meals, groceries, vacations, car repairs, etc. on a credit card was simply not an option. Credit cards were simply not the ubiquitous snares that they are today.
I paid cash for just about everything. I even paid back my student loan–though I was fortunate to have a large part of my college education paid for via the GI Bill.
Today, young people are crushed under the weight of credit card debt. Why? Because for many the thought of actually saving up to buy something is simply anathema. We are in the era of instant gratification. A lot of young people want things, and they want them now! So what do they do? They pull out those credit cards that aren’t already maxed out and continue to accumulate more debt.
And what about those houses that are now worth less than the mortgages? Why would a couple in their late 20s or early 30s opt to buy a $600,000 or $700,000 house with 5% down, an adjustable rate mortgage, a balloon second mortgage and monthly payments of $5,000 or $6,000?
Why? Because they just HAD to have THAT house–even though common sense told them that home prices during the so-called “housing boom” were grossly over-inflated.
Call me old-fashioned, but I can guarantee you that there is no way I would have done that when I was starting out. That is what a lot of those Gen X-ers and Gen Y-ers did. And now many are suffering because of the choices they made.
The Census Bureau report comes just before the Nov. 23 deadline for a special congressional committee to propose $1.2 trillion in budget cuts over ten years.
But more importantly, it has created questions about the government safety net that has sustained older Americans on Social Security and Medicare amid cuts to education and other programs, including cash assistance for low-income families.
“It makes us wonder whether the extraordinary amount of resources we spend on retirees and their health care should be at least partially reallocated to those who are hurting worse than them,” said Harry Holzer, a labor economist and public policy professor at Georgetown University who called the magnitude of the wealth gap “striking.”
Wait a minute! The money that retirees are getting from Social Security and Medicare is money that they paid into the system all their working lives. Are they supposed to feel guilty about that? Older Americans paid into a system that was set up to supplement savings and private sector retirement plans such as profit sharing, employee stock ownership schemes, and savings incentive plans.
Social Security and Medicare are NOT entitlement programs. They are NOT welfare plans for retirees. In fact, the money retirees take out of Social Security and Medicare is in essence money they have loaned the federal government. That the federal government spent that money unwisely or delved into it to fund other programs is not the fault of those who made good faith payments into the system.
There is no doubt that the numbers contained in the Census Bureau report are striking. For example, the median net worth of households headed by someone 65 or older is $170,494. That is 42 percent more than in 1984 when the Census Bureau first began measuring wealth broken down by age.
The median net worth for the younger-age households was $3,662, down by 68 percent from a quarter-century ago, according to the analysis by the Pew Research Center. In all, 37 percent of younger-age households have a net worth of zero or less, nearly double the share in 1984. But among households headed by a person 65 or older, the percentage in that category has been largely unchanged at 8 percent.
Net worth includes the value of a person’s home, possessions and savings accumulated over the years, including stocks, bank accounts, real estate, cars, boats or other property, minus any debt such as mortgages, college loans, and credit card bills. Older Americans tend to hold more net worth because they are more likely to have paid off their mortgages and built up more savings from salary, stocks and other investments over time. The median is the midpoint, and thus refers to a typical household.
Households headed by someone under age 35 saw their median net worth reduced by 27 percent in 2014 as a result of unsecured liabilities, mostly a combination of credit card debt, mortgages and student loans. No other age group had anywhere near that level of unsecured liability acting as a drag on net worth. The next closest was the 35-44 age group, at 10 percent.
Among the older-age households, the share of households worth at least $250,000 rose to 20 percent from 8 percent in 1984.
It is highly irritating and unfair to blame retirees for the plight of the younger generation. Unless of course, those retirees didn’t do their job in rearing fiscally responsible offspring or, even worse, encouraged them to pile up credit card debt by promising them that a parental bail out was in the offing.
Retirees worked long and hard for whatever wealth they have managed to accumulate. And, as the Census Bureau report shows, most are NOT wealthy–not when only 20 percent have a median household net worth of $250,000 or more.
Most older Americans are working longer than their parents did. Both my parents were able to retire at 62. How many older Americans can do that today? Not many. In fact, most are working well into their late 60s and early 70s.
Indeed, the whole concept of “retirement” has transformed today. The notion of spending the alleged “Golden Years,” sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair watching squirrels and listening to birds, is simply hooey.
So when economists lament the fact that retirees have 47-times more household net worth than Generation X-ers or Generation Y-ers, I can’t help but to parapharase that old Smith Barney TV commercial that said: “They made money the old-fashioned way. They earned it.”
Amen to that.
(NEXT: When Does a Gap Become a Canyon? (Part 2)
September 8, 2017
The Decline of American Power
When I think of America’s failed financial policies, its weak political leadership in Congress, and its feeble foreign policy I am reminded of an interesting Thai phrase:
“Maa du khreuang bin tok.” Translated it means “A dog watching an airplane crash.”
The phrase describes an event that is entirely beyond the spectator’s comprehension. It seems apropos to what is happening today in the United States.
I believe we are obliviously witnessing a historical eclipse of American power in the world. It has been ongoing for at least three decades, but it has accelerated dramatically in just the past decade. One might argue that the decline of U.S. power began with the nation’s ignominious withdrawal from Vietnam back in 1975—an event that I personally witnessed and experienced.
For all of our military might—and it is considerable—America often seems like some helpless leviathan. Now, with the country burdened by a $20 trillion national debt and a $685 billion federal budget deficit we are at the mercy of those who would love to see the U.S. crash and burn. (Check out the US Debt Clock: http://www.usdebtclock.org/)
Think about it. Do you seriously believe that China cares an iota about the health of the U.S. economy other than as a market for its products? Or that Muslim nations such as Pakistan feel any allegiance to Washington’s political ambitions?
No amount of American pressure or veiled threats could persuade the Chinese government to revalue its currency, nor induce the Pakistani government to cut links between its intelligence services and the Taliban.
The same goes for many other nations–all of which have eagerly accepted billions and billions of dollars in American aid, loans, and other economic entitlements. Do these countries need to be forever grateful for American (read U.S. taxpayer) largess? No, but given the kind of assistance they have received, it is less than gracious for them to thumb their noses at Washington as we see Europe doing today.
The sardonic words of Prince Schwarzenberg of Austria come to mind. After the Russians had helped Austria suppress the Hungarian uprising in 1849, he said: “They will be astonished by our ingratitude.”
But wait. Why not thumb their noses at Washington? After all, what can the faint-hearted weaklings who are currently in charge of Congress and the American foreign policy do?
We are becoming a nation of political wimps who are guided more by political correctness than correct political foreign policy. The idea that we can be everybody’s friend is a joke in a world where alliances are only valuable when they serve a nation’s economic and political self-interest. Does anybody think that the imams and sheiks of the Middle East have any real affection for America? The same goes for nations like China, India and our closest neighbors–Canada and Mexico.
From one side of the world to the other, countries are doing what they think is best for themselves, rather than what the White House, the State Department or the Pentagon believe that they should do.
I have traveled and worked in some 65 countries during my career as a foreign correspondent, and I can tell you that many of our so-called “friends” around the world would just as soon see us fail as succeed. Some would like to see the U.S. on its knees–the once all-powerful giant humbled by a world of spiteful and covetous David’s.
Americans in general and our leaders in Washington, in particular, are seen as arrogant, uninformed, greedy bullies who deserve a comeuppance. And now we are getting it.[image error]
In his book, “The Much Too Promised Land,” Aaron David Mille tells of his years as a State Department official engaged in what is forlornly called the peace process. In his book, he writes that in the Middle East today the United States finds itself “trapped in a region which it cannot fix, and it cannot abandon,” where America is “not liked, not feared, and not respected.”
Meanwhile, America’s largely uninformed populace continues blithely on, concerned more about who wins America’s Got Talent or what overpaid self-aggrandizer wins the Oscar than how their lives are inextricably tied to nations like China that are propping up our ever- deteriorating economy with their purchase of Treasury Bills.
These same countries are also witnessing the deterioration of America’s once-envied culture and values. Is it any wonder that Muslims the world over despise a nation that has become narcissistic and hedonistic while growing more and more obsessed with sex, fame, wealth, and what passes these days as music.
Once, while traveling in Pakistan I was asked by a Muslim cleric why America allows women to be degraded, why it no longer esteems marriage and family, why it promotes and encourages abortion, and why it lavishes praise and wealth on entertainers, athletes and others who contribute little or nothing to society while showing nominal appreciation for teachers who are charged with providing an education for the nation’s young.
I replied that I thought that characterization was a bit harsh. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder if the cleric didn’t have a point.
We seem to value the wrong things in America. Ask any teenager to identify 10 of the nation’s top rap artists or pop singers, and they will do it in a flash. Ask them to identify ten world leaders, and they will stop at one or two–if that many. Some don’t even know who their vice president is and perhaps 1 in 1000 will know the names of one of the two senators representing their state in Congress.
But it is not just American teenagers who would fail that test. Foreign policy is a non-starter for most Americans, who appear to be more parochial and inward-looking than ever before. This at a time when the global real-politick is as critical to comprehend as it has ever been.
And who is at fault? The media? Yes, most certainly. But not entirely. True, today’s media is more focused on reactive, knee-jerk reporting of events than being in a position to explain them with depth and intelligence.
Too much reporting seems less concerned with providing useful information to the electorate than with attacking and undermining political figures the media disagree with or loathe. President Trump is a case in point. Never mind that he is our duly elected president. Many in the press seem foolishly intent on burning down the presidency to save it.
As for international reporting, it is expensive to cover the world in an era when traditional media are retrenching financially. Gone are the days when the Chicago Tribune, my old newspaper, had 15-20 reporters living around the world. Instead, as with many news organizations, they parachute journalists in for a few hours or days, produce superficial stories, and then it’s on to the next crisis.
Much of the fault lies in Washington where it behooves the nabobs to keep global politics arcane and nearly incomprehensible to the great unwashed.
At the outset of World War II, a senator was asked how the public should be informed of the progress of the war.
“We shouldn’t provide any information at all except to say who won when the war is over,” he said.
I suspect too many in our State Department and Department of Defense feel the same way, not to mention the White House and Congress.
Vigorous and courageous leadership is needed as the U.S. deals with a strange new world–one where Washington is finding it harder than ever to impose its will on anyone anywhere and where the eclipse of American power is manifest.
Perhaps that is not a bad thing. Heaven knows that when we have tried to impose our will on other nations, the results have been mixed, if not disastrous.
However, without strong leadership, I fear that all of us will be helplessly and incomprehensively watching the political, economic and moral crash and burn of a once great country.
Look at how divided we are today. Violent groups suffused with identity politics are attacking one another; radical leftists attacking conservatives and vice-versa; white supremacists attacking Antifa and Antifa attacking everybody; Democrats and Republicans unable to compromise or agree on anything. Our insane, self-destructive behavior and our seemingly irreparable discord and acrimony are bringing America to her knees.
We are ripping ourselves apart, and the world is applauding our masochism.
RIP USA.
August 29, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Nonnie Jules
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Nonnie Jules and her original essay: “Does My Life Matter?”
Because of the division that’s going on in our world right now, the hate that’s being stirred up and spewed by these White Supremacist groups, we felt it appropriate and extremely necessary that we share a piece from our President, Nonnie Jules, that needs to be wide-spread.
“DOES MY LIFE MATTER?”
By Nonnie Jules
I am a black woman, and because of the shade of my skin and coarseness of my hair, because of the fullness of my hips, my lips and the bold colors I wear…some don’t find me as attractive as my fairer counterparts. You see, I’m no longer your house-maid or here for your sexual pleasure; no longer Mamie to your children, I’m now someone’s Mother…A treasure. But, does my life matter?
I am a black man, and because of my dark skin and the boldness of my stance, because of the kinky in my hair, the anger in my stare, and the wear and tear shown on my hands…some still don’t see me as a man. You see, I’m no longer your field property or your whipping post. I’ve freedom papers and own land now, maybe, more than most. You build cages to hold me, guilty or not; where you should build institutions of higher learning, you lock me away for little things, then leave me there to rot. Do you forever see my bed as a cot? But, does my life matter?
I am a white woman, and because of my milk dove skin and cute, pinched nose, thin ruby red lips and fair skin that glows…With my pearly whites and prominent chin…Some still look at me and despise the skin I’m in. I was never privy to the pain that was caused. I was born into that hatred…Those God-awful laws. So, does my life still matter?
I am a white man, born into privilege and wealth, easy life, perfect health, yet…I’m still persecuted and referred to as “the man.” I, too, hate the ways of the Ku Klux Klan. My neighbors are black, white, green and red…Still, I haven’t fled. To be where everyone looks more like me is not where I want to be. I, too, would like to one day be FREE. Yes, FREE! It also applies to me! FREE of the labels that bind because of the color of my skin; I’ve never owned any human or degraded any man. But, does my life still matter?
I am a brown-skinned woman, and because of my accented words, you think I should be silent…Quiet and not heard. I can do more than clean your windows and floors. Just ask me what I’m capable of, you’d be surprised, I’m sure. I may have come here via the back of a truck, or even the legal route, if I was blessed with such luck. Maybe I was born here, and my parents, too. In your eyes, would that still make me less American than you? Does my life matter?
I am a brown-skinned man, and though maybe a bit stocky, I’m no less in appearance, than your brawn and cocky. I’m not a rapist, a thief or thug…but a man like you, with kids to hug. I’m not ashamed to tend your lawns and trees, but Executive, also a title I wear with ease; whatever it takes…My family to feed. Don’t dismiss, or overlook my face; I may not have been born here, but I’m here to stay. And, with that said, does my life still matter?
With all that’s going on, there’s much racial unrest. It’s time to put differences aside and put real LOVE to the test. We can’t keep fighting each other when there are real wars going on. We must come together in love, heal and stand strong. There are real enemies among us, and their names we know not. We must stand on the front lines, together and talk.
The differences between us are fewer than those in our heads; and in the end, until we draw our last breath, we all still bleed red. Yes, that small matter is what makes us brothers, and binds us tighter than any other.
That stream of red flowing thru our veins is what should force us to release all blame, stop the pain, forge ahead, no more blood we’ll shed.
Contact via:
Email: nonniejules@gmail.com
Twitter: @nonniejules & @AskTheGoodMommy
Facebook: BooksByNonnie
Blog/Websites:
Titles:
“DAYDREAM’S DAUGHTER, NIGHTMARE’S FRIEND” (A NOVEL)
“SUGARCOATIN’ IS FOR CANDY & PACIFYIN’ IS FOR KIDS”
“IF ONLY THERE WAS MUSIC…” THE POETRY OF FORBIDDEN LOVE
To learn more about Nonnie:
[image error]
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this fantastic tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
(Nonnie Jules) RWISA Author Page
August 28, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Linda Mims
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Linda Mims and her original short story: “You Take the Blue Pill.”
[image error] Linda Mims
You Take the Blue Pill, the Story Ends. You Take the Red Pill …
By Linda Mims
I was sixteen when I first suspected that I might be the one. I’d seen people in my family striving for excellence all my life. My parents’ friends were creative types who often took time to quiz me about my goals and what I was doing to achieve them. I had been persistently pleading with a leader at my church who had the power to make one of my goals a reality.
This woman headed the Womens’ Ministry. Everything from church announcements to annual celebrations fell under her domain. I wanted to be the youth announcer on the weekly, hour-long radio broadcast that emanated from our church, but she was speaking a language that I didn’t understand.
“Take some speech lessons and come back to me.”
Where in the world was I going to get speech lessons and how would I pay for them? My family knew some people, and the house did overflow from Friday to Sunday with weekend guests, but that didn’t mean we had money. A party costs maybe $25 back then—especially if everybody brought food and drinks.
Bottom line, we didn’t have money for speech lessons. Still, I wasn’t going to give up. I was a spiritual youngster, even before I knew what spiritual meant. I told the Lord what I wanted and then forgot about it. While I was waiting, strange, but wonderful things were happening to me. I was voted vice president of my choir and I was chosen to deliver the Youth Day Address. Go figure!
One Friday evening, my mother received a phone call. The church maven and her assistant had gone on strike. I was too young to understand everything a strike entailed. I just knew that I was being asked to fill in as the main radio announcer for the broadcast; the very thing I’d wanted in the first place. That broadcast went out to hundreds, maybe thousands in the Chicago listening area.
When she returned from her strike, Ms. Maven kept me on as a junior announcer and she became one of my most revered mentors. That was the year I discovered that I was tight with God. I could get a prayer through! Was I the one?
I’m every woman. It’s all in me
While in college a few years later, I watched a bold, beautiful young woman, with a voice as big as a brass saxophone, sing on a makeshift stage. It was an impromptu concert behind one of the lecture halls on my university campus. The day was balmy and the sun was bright. We shaded our eyes as we stared straight into the golden orb that bathed her in its light.
She looked like a woman and a child at the same time. She wore very few clothes. Just a band around her breasts, a pair of short shorts, ankle boots, and a tall feather stuck in the crown of one of the biggest afros I’d ever seen.
We were fascinated, and her voice held us captivated. After the performance, members of the group handed out bills that said their name was Rufus, featuring Chaka Khan. They would be performing at a local club that night.
We showed up to the club, but a multi-ethnic crowd had filled the place to capacity. You don’t need to ask for racial diversity once everybody realizes you have something we all desire. Anyway, we couldn’t get in. That day would be the first and only time I’d hear Chaka Khan sing for free. At the time, I wondered if she was also the one!
In 1978, Chaka Khan recorded her first solo album, Chaka. One song from that album would define the rest of my life. In it, she sang my truth! I’d always felt that I could do anything, but it wasn’t until Ms. Khan sang the words, that I knew how to describe what I’d always known.
“I’m every woman. It’s all in me. Anything you want done, baby, I do it naturally. I ain’t bragging, but I’m the one. Just ask me and it shall be done.”
I had a theme song!
You may not know the purpose, but know that there is a purpose
In The Matrix, one of my favorite movies of all time, there’s the scene where Morpheus gives Neo a choice between the red pill or the blue pill. Neo has been searching for information about the matrix. Morpheus has to convince Neo that he isn’t looking for the matrix, but what he’s really looking for is more. Morpheus believes that once Neo has answers to his questions, he will come to accept what Morpheus already knows. Neo is the one.
Being the one is about knowing that you want more. You want to change things. You may not know what your ultimate purpose is, but you know that there is a purpose. You’re so absolutely self-motivated and focused, that God himself delights in your purpose. I told you I’ve always been spiritual, so, I’ll say that I believe when God and the universe delight in your purpose, there’s no stopping you.
The Matrix is fiction, so let’s take a look at real-life people who wanted more. One such person was the late author, Janet Dailey. A prolific writer, Dailey thought she could write better than most of the romance writers she was reading. She knew she was the one. When people referred to her as “just a secretary” who writes romance novels, Dailey said the following, and I quote:
“One of the things that to me is the biggest compliment any writer can get is hearing from the ones who say, ‘I used to think reading was boring until I picked up one of your books.’ ”
Between 1974 and 2007, Janet Dailey sold over 300 million copies of more than 100 titles. Not bad for “just a secretary”.
Then, there was Steve Jobs. Steve dropped out of Reed College in Portland, Oregon after six months, but he stayed there and audited creative classes over the next 18 months. A course in calligraphy developed his love of typography. Apple and Macintosh computers would be the first to offer creative fonts, including calligraphy, for the consumer’s use.
Steve Jobs partnered with his friend, Steve Wozniak, to start Apple Computer, in the Jobs’ family garage. Steve Jobs said, “I want to put a ding in the universe”.
I guess he knew that he was the one!
Being the one comes with certain responsibilities
Many of you have already realized that you are the one; you just haven’t taken the red pill yet. When you’re ready, there are some responsibilities:
Toot your own horn
Don’t give up
Throw away false humility
First, toot your own horn! You can’t be afraid of appearing to be too much of a showoff. Waiting patiently for others to give you the rewards you so richly deserve, may yield nothing but hurt and disappointment. Individuals will slink away with your destiny in their greedy little hands without so much as a backwards glance for you.
A few times, I spoke too quietly in meetings or waited until it was too late to claim my own ideas that I’d shared with others in private. I watched, stunned, as another, bolder individual stole my idea, shouted it out, and received my praise. I had to wise up quickly and realize that there are differences in the way that leaders and achievers talk and present. First, leaders declare that they have something to say. Then, when everyone is focused, they speak. They make sure their ideas are credited.
Don’t give up, opportunity does knock more than once.
I’ve learned that opportunity knocks more than once. Heck, when you’re the one, you create opportunities. When one door closes, another door really does open. If you weren’t ready the first time, the truth is, you can keep reinventing yourself until your moment comes or until you’re tired of trying.
“Sometimes life is going to hit you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith.” —Steve Jobs
Throw away that false humility! It’s okay to hang back while you formulate your plan. Go ahead! Get the lay of the land. If you are confident in the knowledge that you can do anything, take as much time as you need. Just don’t overdo humble. That’s almost as bad as having too much pride.
It’s permissible to show pride in yourself and your accomplishments. The 21st Century is begging for your stories, calling for your experiences, and expecting you to step up and lead, in every way imaginable. Women like Oprah Winfrey—women like Taylor Swift—they are leading change with their out-of-the-box ideas and sweeping changes to the status quo.
Men like Barack Obama are stepping out of obscurity and into the Senate and the office of the President of the United States. Have the audacity to dream! Wear your mantle of distinction with pride. Step-up, speak-out! You are the one!
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A Nation Gone Daft
For the past week or so I have watched with bemusement the violent behavior of some of my fellow Americans who are bent on eradicating our nation’s history and obliterating some of its significant symbols, such as statues, monuments, and treasured documents.
My attitude toward the minority of Americans who creep out at night to demolish or deface statuary and other representations of America’s past that they find offensive is straightforward: they are mobs of irrational cretins.
However, I am beginning to wonder if America’s version of the Taliban is indeed a minority. There seems to be a national epidemic of GTCD (Group-Think Cerebral Disorder) in which otherwise rational human beings lose their common sense and turn into frenzied, frantic, feverish creatures who are convinced that our nation, its founders, its history, and its values are malevolent, incorrect, and deplorable.
Therefore, these iconoclasts insist, some images, historical figures, and symbols must be obliterated. The world saw it with the Bolsheviks in Russia, and we are seeing it today with the Islamic State in Syria and elsewhere.
It reminds me of an oft-repeated mantra I heard while covering the war in Vietnam. “We had to destroy the village to save it.”
I haven’t seen anything quite like this since Pol Pot, and his army of Khmer Rouge thugs took over Cambodia in 1975 and began eradicating that nation’s storied history, exterminating its culture, removing its icons, and eventually murdering anybody who it felt represented the past.
Their idea was to take Cambodia back to the middle ages and then reconstruct the nation so that it reflected the values and political beliefs of the Khmer Rouge. I spent several years chronicling the Khmer Rouge’s insane and homicidal activities.
I visited dozens of refugee camps along the Thai-Cambodian border where I heard the horror stories of “political cleansing” in which artists, musicians, writers, thespians, etc. were hacked to death by machete-wielding children infused with “absolute righteousness” conferred on them by their Khmer Rouge masters.
So far during America’s spell of national fanaticism, we have sidestepped the wholesale slaughter of the “politically deplorable” by zealots who believe they are the arbiters of moral rectitude and historical and political correctness.
But one wonders how long it will be before we see Antifa lemmings and other proselytized nihilist mobs wielding machetes against those who support free speech and who resist Group Think Cerebral Disorder.
I fear we are descending into a time of irredeemable ludicrousness when an Asian-American sportscaster named Robert Lee is removed by ESPN from broadcasting the University of Virginia vs. William & Mary football game because his name is too much like Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s.
[image error] Robert Lee & Robert E. Lee
Or how about the ill-starred horse at the University of Southern California? The horse is one-half of the university’s Trojan symbol, and his name is Traveler. Robert E. Lee’s horse was also named Traveller, though spelled with two ll’s. Consequently, said the university’s Black Student Assembly in an argument that pleads for even a modicum of logic, the USC Trojan mascot smacks of white supremacy.
[image error] USC’s Traveler
After all, the USC horse is white and so was Robert E. Lee’s horse. Racism?
How dare any of God’s creatures be born white—dogs, cats, rats, horses, and even human beings. In today’s intolerant alternative world, that appears to be prima facie racism!
Confession. I was born white. Do I feel guilty about that? Not one bit. Should I? Not at all. I never owned slaves, and I don’t know any fair-hued people today who do. So why must I be saddled perpetually with “white guilt” because of the way I was born or because of what happened on a Georgia cotton plantation two hundred years ago?
Even the left-leaning American Civil Liberties Union recently ran afoul of the leftist thought police. It took substantial heat for a tweet featuring a cute little girl holding an American flag and wearing a shirt bearing the message “Free Speech.”
The ACLU was guilty of promoting “white supremacy” because the little girl is deplorably white, leftist groups shrieked. So what happened? The ACLU apologized, naturally.
I fear our nation is falling victim to a tyranny the minority.
I am not talking about a racial or ethnic minority here. I am referring to a minority composed of those with the biggest mouths, the loudest voices, and the most outrageous and contemptible ideas.
It is a minority of thugs and oafs that the media have emboldened and goaded with wall to wall coverage of every statue ripped down, every national symbol demolished, every historical figure demeaned, and yes, every university mascot maligned because of its name or color.
It is a nation in which universities are no longer bastions of free speech, where college campuses no longer encourage innovative discourse, rational reflection, and reasoned opinion. Sadly, too many have morphed into star-chamber institutions where freedom of expression is rebuked in favor of “safe spaces” and judicious dialog is only allowed when some group or faction is not “offended.”
That is the very definition of intellectual suppression and academic tyranny. If the goal is for America’s Orwellian universities to produce unenlightened androids who all think and act alike, then that aspiration is nigh.
How ridiculous and daft our country has become. Is it any wonder the rest of the world has lost confidence in us and in some cases is laughing at us?
During my lifetime I have seen our nation descend from the “Greatest Generation” that unreservedly sacrificed everything to protect our freedoms, to a nation of hateful, unenlightened, and boorish buffoons bent on destroying the very foundation of our republic as well as the values, ideals, and freedoms millions of Americans gave their lives for.
What next? A Maoist-like “Cultural Revolution” in which the past is sanitized and amended, freethinkers are imprisoned and tortured, and an oppressive clique of autocrats dictates to the majority what we can say, do, or believe?
Lord, have mercy on us.
August 27, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Joni Parker
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Joni Parker and her original short story: “On The Air.”
[image error] Joni Parker
ON THE AIR
By Joni Parker
Good afternoon, this is Mike Evans at iFantasy talk radio in Tucson, Arizona where we love to talk about science fiction and fantasy. Thanks for joining me today. We have a very special guest lined up for you, an iFantasy talk radio exclusive. World-famous journalist, Olivia Richards, is expected to join us via satellite telephone. As you may know, Olivia and her husband, John, were reported missing at sea several years ago, but she’s made contact and will be here in a few minutes. But first, we must hear from our sponsors at Cactus Thumb Nurseries. (run commercial)
Mike: Welcome back. We’ve just made contact with world-famous journalist, Olivia Richards. Hello, Olivia, this is Mike Evans. Can you hear me? (static) Olivia, are you there? (static)
Olivia: Yes, I can hear you, but just barely, please speak up.
Mike: I will. Thank you for joining me on iFantasy talk radio. I’m Mike Evans in Tucson, Arizona. Let me begin by asking, how are you and where are you?
Olivia: My husband and I are fine, but for the last few years, we’ve been stranded on this island called Seaward Isle. In 2011, we rented a sailboat in southern France and were sailing to Italy when we were caught in a ferocious storm. It came out of nowhere. We hid in the cabin below deck for hours until our boat crashed on the shores of this island. We survived the crash just fine, but we haven’t been able to find a way off. We’ve met hundreds of people here just like us. That’s how I met Takura. He’s a friend of yours, I understand. He talked me into coming on this program because he was concerned people wouldn’t understand his English.
Mike: Yes, I’ve met him and I thought his English was fine. He went to Harvard for his doctorate.
Olivia: Yes, I know, but he feels very self-conscious.
Mike: How is he?
Olivia: He’s doing well. As you know, he’s a geologist and has gathered a group of Japanese scientists to figure out our situation. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough computers or the right equipment to do the job, but at least, he’s discovered that we’re not on Earth and he’s discussed this problem with the Elves.
Mike: Say what? You’re not on Earth? Did you say something about Elves? Are you kidding? Say, have you met Legolas by any chance? (Laughs)
Olivia: No, but yes, I’m serious. They’re real Elves. This island belongs to them and even they can’t figure out how we got here.
Mike: So where are you, if you’re not on Earth?
Olivia: We believe that this island is at the end of a wormhole somewhere in space. We don’t know how or where, but here we are. Takura believes the opening is located about six hundred kilometers above the Earth’s surface somewhere near the moon. We ask all astronomers to use their equipment to locate the opening and ask NASA for a rescue mission. That seems to be our only hope.
Mike: Attention all astronomers and scientists at NASA! Olivia needs your help. Contact this station immediately if you can provide any assistance. (chuckles) How are you able to talk to us?
Olivia: My friend, Ebony Shorter, had a satellite telephone when she crashed on the island. She was in a yacht race that went around the world, but she was caught in a storm and ended up here. Takura and his friends repaired an old generator to make electricity to recharge the phone. He’s also set up a computer network with bits and pieces he’s found.
Mike: What do you use for fuel?
Olivia: The scientists use alcohol made of old potato skins and grain.
Mike: You mean moonshine. Right. Anything else we can help you with today, Olivia?
Olivia: No, just please get the word out. We’d really like to get home and see our families. Thank you so much for your help. (static) Our connection is fading…(static)…only a few (static)…Please help…(static)
Mike: Apparently, we’ve just lost our connection to Olivia. Once again, let me reiterate her desperate situation. She’s located on an island called Seaward Isle, somewhere at the end of a wormhole and needs the help of astronomers and NASA scientists to locate this opening and rescue them. Hey, maybe we can bring the Shuttle program back to life. Well, that’s all the time we have for today. Thank you for joining me on iFantasy talk radio and join me tomorrow for another adventure into science fiction and fantasy. And don’t forget to send your comments and ideas to our Facebook page. Many thanks to our sponsor, Cactus Thumb Nurseries.
* * *
Mike leaned back in his chair and listened to the program again. Then he pulled out his cell phone. This had to be a joke. But he shook his head when he recalled that his old buddy, Takura, could never tell a joke. He was so serious. They’d met in college nearly twenty years ago when they were freshmen at the University of Arizona with majors in geology. Tak, as he wanted to be called, was a foreign student from Japan and understood more English than he spoke. He also loved the geological formations in the local area, but knew nothing about hiking in the desert. Mike was an experienced hiker and took him under his wing.
They’d remained good friends, but lost contact when Tak transferred to Harvard to finish his doctorate in geology and later returned to join the faculty at the university. Mike speed-dialed the geology department and it rang and rang. Finally, a young woman answered the phone.
“Geology Department, University of Arizona. Bear down, Wildcats!”
“I’d like to speak to Professor Takura, please.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”
“What? Where is he?” Mike furrowed his brow.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”
“Is Professor Lopez there?”
“Hold on.”
“Professor Lopez. Who’s calling?”
“Julio, this is Mike Evans.”
“Mike! What’s up, man?”
“Hey, I was trying to get in touch with Tak, but I understand he’s not there anymore. Where’d he go?”
“Don’t know, man. A few years ago, he went on a sabbatical and never came back. His parents told us the ship he was on disappeared in a bad storm.”
“You mean it sank.”
“No, man. It vanished. No debris, no oil slick, no survivors. Nothing.”
“Weird. I got an email from him at the radio station last week asking for an interview so I agreed. He sent Olivia Richards to speak to me. She’s a famous journalist who went missing a few years ago. She was on a ship in a storm, too. Anyway, she told me that they were stranded on an island called Seaward Isle, somewhere in space at the end of a wormhole with Elves. I didn’t believe her.”
“Elves? Was she high?” Lopez paused. “You don’t think it’s real, do you?”
“I don’t know, man. They were both lost at sea.” Mike sighed, leaning back. “Thanks, man or should I say Professor?” He laughed and disconnected the call. After a few moments, he scrolled through his list of contacts and called one of them.
The receptionist said, “You have reached the National Aeronautical and Space Administration. How may I direct your call?”
“Doctor Rachel Goodwin, geology division.”
“Hold on while I connect you.”
“Doctor Goodwin speaking.”
“Hey, Rachel. It’s me, Mike Evans from Tucson.”
“Seriously? After all these years?”
“Hey, I come in peace. I apologize for whatever I did.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not exactly. Hey, have you been in contact with Tak from college? The Japanese guy?”
“You mean the nice guy who asked me for a date and you told him he was nuts?”
“Um, yeah, him. I think he’s in trouble and needs help. Julio told me that he was on a ship that disappeared in a storm, a few years ago, but he just emailed me for an interview on my radio program. He sent a friend, Olivia Richards, the famous journalist. She was lost at sea, too.”
“So you don’t have a regular job yet?”
“Not fair. I want you to listen to it, okay? Just listen and tell me what you think.”
“Okay.” She sighed.
Mike played the program. “Well, what do you think?”
Silence.
“Rachel? Are you there?”
“Yes. Is this a joke?”
“That’s what I thought, too, but Tak couldn’t tell a joke if his life depended on it.”
She paused. “You’re right. Send me a link to your program.”
“Thanks, Rachel.” Mike sighed deeply when Rachel hung up. She hadn’t changed much and still resented that prank, but he’d always found her attractive. Maybe he should try again, someday. Mike shivered when the air conditioning kicked on; he’d been sweating heavily. He emailed her the link and leaned back. What if it’s real? Nah! Can’t be, can it?
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“THE BLACK ELF OF SEAWARD ISLES”
***
Trailer for the Seaward Isle Saga:
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August 26, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Stephanie Collins
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Stephanie Collins and her original short story: “Guilt, Shame, & Fear.”
[image error] Stephanie Collins
Guilt, Shame & Fear
By Stephanie Collins
“I can’t stand the feeling of being out of control, so I’ve never had any interest in trying drugs or alcohol,” I mused.
“You sure seemed to have an interest when you were younger,” Dad informed me. He responded to my perplexed look before I had a chance to deny his claim. “What? You don’t remember trying pot? Let’s see. It was about 1975. That would have made you five, right? I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a summer afternoon. I walked into the living room and found you with a bong in one hand and a beer in the other. You just looked up at me, glassy-eyed, with a smile on your face and said, ‘Hi, Dad.’ You don’t remember that?”
“Uh…no!”
“Ha! Do you remember the massive headache you had the next day? You hated life that day! I told you not ever to do it again…and you never did,” he reminisced in a tone laced with humor and pride.
It was after that conversation when I really began to question my apparent lack of childhood memories. I have next to no memory of life before the divorce of my parents (when I was eight) and precious few afterward.
My parental split also marks the onset of memories of the “secret playtime” I shared with Dad. I remember realizing that what was happening to me was wrong (to a certain extent, anyway), but Dad really missed Mom. I felt proud to be there for him in his time of grief and loneliness. I had many roles as the oldest daughter. I got my toddler sister to bed on time, scolded her when I found her drinking a beer (that one I do have a vague memory of), and I cleaned the house. Those “more intimate interactions” with Dad were just another in my list of responsibilities as I saw it.
But if Dad remembered the timeline correctly, Mom and Dad were still together when I was five. Where was Mom when her Kindergartener daughter was experimenting with drugs? Could this mean I should add neglect as a descriptor of my “chaotic” upbringing? Could it mean the molestation began earlier than I have any memory of? Does it even matter at this point?
For a time, I was skeptical if someone told me s/he didn’t have sexual abuse in their background. It seemed it was everywhere. I ran a support group in a junior high school when getting my psychology degree. It was for eighth-grade girls, and the only qualifier for an invitation to the group was poor school attendance. After a few weeks of meetings, I opened a session with – innocently enough – “So, how was everyone’s weekend?” One girl immediately began to cry. She explained she had confronted her parents over the weekend with the news that her brother had sexually abused her for years. She had come forward out of fear for the niece her brother’s girlfriend had just given birth to. That student’s admission led to the revelation that six of the seven of us in our circle that day had a history of sexual abuse.
My best friend in college was gang-raped in high school. My college boyfriend was [brutally] raped by a neighbor as a child. Maybe the most disturbing situation I heard about was when I was a senior in high school. I had befriended a freshman. She came to me one day, inconsolable. She was petrified, as she was positive she was pregnant. I tried to calm her with reassuring words, then asked, “Have you told [your boyfriend] yet?” She burst into a fresh bout of tears. When she was finally able to speak again, she confessed in an agonized whisper, “I can’t! It’s not his. It’s…it’s my uncle’s, or my father’s.”
I don’t know how I thought sexual abuse was rampant all around me but had somehow left the rest of my family untouched. Soon after my first daughter was born, I learned that Dad had attempted to molest my younger sister when I was about 12 (my sister would have been 7 or 8 then). As it turns out, I disrupted the attempt when I went to inform them I had just finished making breakfast. I learned of that incident because our [even younger] step sister had just pressed charges against Dad for her sexual abuse from years earlier. He served four years.
Incidentally, that family drama enlightened me to the fact that my grandmother had been abused by a neighbor. My aunt had been abused by her uncle. I wonder if Dad had been sexually abused, too (in addition to the daily, brutal physical abuse I know he suffered at the hands of my grandfather).
As with most survivors of abuse from a family member, I am full of ambiguity and conflict. I am glad Dad was educated to the error of his ways. I’m satisfied he paid for his crimes. I’m relieved the truth came out. I hate that the truth came out. I mourn for the shell of a man who returned from prison. I weep for a family that was blown apart by the scandal. I am heartbroken for my grandmother, who was devastated by the whole ordeal. I am thankful I live 3000 miles away from my family, so I don’t have to face the daily small-town shame they all do, now that Dad is a registered sex offender. I am proud of my step sister for speaking up. I am woefully ashamed for not having the courage to do it myself, which possibly would have prevented the abuse of others after me. I love my father. I am thankful for the [many] great things he has done for me over the years. I hate the effect his molestation had on me, including the role it likely played in my high school rape by another student, and my first [abusive, dysfunctional] marriage.
As I’ve clearly demonstrated, my story is far from unique. Heck, it’s not even remotely severe or traumatic when compared to what others have survived. Still, here I am – 40 years after my first memories of molestation – and I’m still suffering the consequences. Along with my disgrace for allowing others to be abused after me, I carry incredible shame for my involvement in the acts (regardless of the decades of therapy that advise me I had no real power or choice in the matter). I carry unbelievable guilt for the strain my history places on my relationship with my husband. He’s an amazing, wonderful, loving man, who deserves nothing less than a robust, vigorous, fulfilling sex life, but gets – to the best of my ability – a [hopefully] somewhat satisfying one. I carry secret embarrassment over the only real sexual fantasy I have – that of reliving my rape and [this time] taking great pleasure in castrating the bastard in the slowest, most brutally savage way imaginable.
Heaviest of all, I carry fear. There’s nothing I can do to change my past. All I can do is work toward preventing the continued cycle of abuse. I may have a warped view of personal boundaries, I may struggle with my sexuality, and I may be somewhat unfamiliar with healthy family dynamics, but I can do all in my power to ensure my kids fare far better than me. I fear failure.
My eldest daughter has mild to moderate developmental delay. While statistics for sexual abuse in the general population is scary enough, the likelihood of abuse when a cognitive disability is involved is all but a certainty. My second daughter is non-verbal, non-ambulatory, and severely mentally delayed. She’s a prime candidate for abuse. What if my efforts to protect them fall short?
My [teenaged] son and my youngest [“tween”] daughter both have ADHD. Impulse control is a constant struggle for them both. What if the education, counseling, advice, and coaching I offer them about healthy relationships, sexuality, safety and personal responsibility aren’t enough?
I try to counteract these lingering after effects of abuse by remaining ever thankful for the love, good fortune, and beautiful life I share with my husband and children today, but my guilt, shame, and fear cling to me with tenacious persistence.
I am just finishing “It Begins And Ends With Family” by Jo Ann Wentzel. I highly recommend the read. The subject is foster care, but no conversation about foster children is complete without a discussion of child abuse and neglect. While we can debate the best course of action in helping abused children, the top priority must be to work toward a goal of prevention; to break the cycle of abuse. I am hopeful that – as a society – we can work together to empathize, educate, support, counsel, and care enough to stop the cycle of all abuse. If sharing my truth will help toward that goal, well…Here I am. This is my truth.
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(Stephanie Collins) RWISA Author Page
August 25, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Joan Curtis
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Joan Curtis and her original short story: “A Gift of Silence.”
[image error] Joan Curtis
A Gift of Silence
By Joan C. Curtis
The man stood outside the store window, shifting from foot to foot. I’d have probably gone right by him, but as I passed, he looked me straight in the face, sending a chill up my back. Mystified, I found a place in the shadows and watched.
He wore a black golf shirt with a Nike swoosh. His black slacks were neatly pressed, but scuffs covered the toes of his dark shoes. As he paced in front of the store, as if waiting for something or someone, his left foot dragged. Maybe that was where the scuffs came from. A girl passed by him without so much as a glance. She wore flip-flops and short shorts. He turned away from her. Why look me in the face and ignore this young girl with long flowing blond hair?
After an interminable twelve minutes, he entered the store. I crept to the side window to get a closer view. A saleslady approached with a big hopeful smile. He jerked away as if he might flee, but she persisted. Probably learned that in Sales 101.
Peering inside, I could make out the blurry image of the saleslady as she crouched down to retrieve a box. While she bent, the man grabbed an item off the counter. He pocketed it so fast if I’d blinked, I’d have missed it. Gasping in surprise, I nearly collapsed into the window. So neat. So fast.
While I recovered from the shock of having witnessed a theft, the man exited the store. He hurried in the direction of downtown. Hands tucked in his pockets and his head lowered, he wove along the sidewalk, avoiding moms with kids, students with backpacks, and cyclists. I followed. What did he plan to do with his ill-gotten gains?
My friend, Rose, would give me a lecture. Why didn’t you go inside the store and raise the alarm? What were you thinking, watching, witnessing, and doing nothing? No wonder we pay so much money for our trinkets. Thieves get away with it, and it’s all because of people like you. But, I never intended to tell Rose about this. Not if I could help it.
Instead, I hastened to follow the man, avoiding other shoppers and site-seers. My sole purpose was to find out what this strange person was up to. My watch read two-fifteen. I had missed the coffee date with my cousin. She’d forgive me. I’d have to make up an excuse about traffic or something equally lame, but I couldn’t think about her now. I had to see where this man led me. My curious nature would never let me rest otherwise.
Moments later he entered the parking deck. He was going to his car. Darn! Once he got in a car, I’d lose him for sure. My Honda was parked here as well, but on the top level. With my luck, his was probably on the first level. It was impossible to imagine we’d be parked close enough for me to follow him.
He entered the elevator. The light flashed up to level 4. I raced up the stairs like a madwoman. Huffing and puffing, I reached the fourth level just as the elevator doors opened. I caught a glimpse of his black form walking to a red Kia. I made a quick turn and hightailed it up to the fifth floor to retrieve my car. Then I plowed down toward the exit, round and round, hoping, praying. Eureka! The red Kia was just in front of me, waiting to pay. The Universe was on my side.
Mr. Thief drove with caution, obeying all the traffic rules, making it easy for me to keep him in sight. Nonetheless, I stayed one car back, not wanting to risk him seeing me. Maybe he’d remember me from the street! A shiver ran through me. What would he do, this thief? Stop his car, jump out, and murder me? Absurd.
The light changed. We moved down the road. A strange thought filled my head. Had the Universe wanted me to witness this thievery? Everything seemed to be falling into place. “Don’t be stupid.” Rose would say and would add I was being melodramatic.
We turned into the parking lot for the Hermitage Nursing Home. This made no sense. Why not a pawn shop? Didn’t thieves go to shady establishments on busy street corners with flashing neon signs to hock their merchandise? Not to a nursing home. Maybe he worked here? Maybe he was some sort of klepto and couldn’t help himself? Maybe he had no intention of hocking the stolen article? He pulled into a parking place a few steps from the entrance. I chose one farther away. From my rearview mirror, I spied him getting out of the car and entering the building.
Once he disappeared, I made my way inside and approached the information desk where a girl of about twenty had her head buried in a People magazine. When she finally looked my way, her eyes filled with wonder, as if I’d dropped from the sky, “Can I help you?” she said.
“The man who just came in. He dropped a five-dollar bill in the parking lot. I ran after him, but I missed him. Do you know where he might be?”
“Oh, that’s Jerome. He’s visiting his mom. Comes every day at least once. Want me to give it to him?”
I hesitated. She blinked. “Well… I guess it won’t hurt for you to go down to room 212. It’s the last room on the right, down that corridor.” She pointed the direction.
I moseyed away as if I had all the time in the world. Once out of her view, I picked up my pace. Conversation came from room 212. Mr. Thief was talking very loudly. Apparently his mom had hearing issues.
At the door, I peered inside where Mr. Thief perched on the edge of the bed near an attractive woman with cottony white hair.
“You shouldn’t have, Jerome. I know how much this place is costing you,” the woman said.
“But, Mom, it’s your birthday. I wanted to give you a little something.”
“Just having you here is enough. But, I do like bracelets. You know how I like bracelets. Remember when your dad gave me a diamond bracelet—of course, I didn’t know it wasn’t diamonds then. It wasn’t till later. Remember? After he died and left nothing but bills and debts, I tried to sell the bracelet and found out it was worthless. I flushed it down the commode.”
“I remember, Mom. You told me that story. I wanted you to have a real diamond bracelet before… well, you know.”
She hugged him. “This is the best gift ever.”
I backed away from the room, my heart racing.
Back in my car I didn’t wait for Mr. Thief, a.k.a. Mr. Nice Son, to come out of the building. I started the engine and drove home.
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***
To learn more about Joan:
*The Author’s Story
*Author Showcase
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(Joan Curtis) RWISA Author Page
August 24, 2017
WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour: Bruce Borders
For the next few weeks, I will be featuring the work of fellow members of the Rave Writers-International Society of Authors (RWISA). Please check back each day to see an eclectic sample of fine writing by these talented authors. Today I am pleased to present: Bruce Borders and his original short story: “One Nice Fall Day.”
[image error] Bruce Borders
One Nice Fall Day
by Bruce A. Borders
©2017 Bruce A. Borders & Borders Publishing
Not having a good Monday at work, I decided to cut my day short and head home. Home, my sanctuary. As a single guy, I often retreat to my sanctuary when things become intolerable, such as today.
Pulling into the drive, I noticed the yard and house really needed attention. I kept the lawn mowed, but the knee-high weeds were another matter. The house too had long been neglected. The loose siding and trim boards couldn’t be ignored much longer.
“Maybe next weekend,” I mused.
But then, I’d said that last week too. I’d only gotten as far as hauling out a garden rake and a tree trimmer before reconsidering and putting them back. Or, maybe I hadn’t put them away, I thought, seeing my rake in the yard.
Taking a minute to replace the rake in the tool shed, I wandered inside, intent on taking it easy for the rest of the afternoon. And I did. The next couple of hours were spent napping. Then, feeling slightly more energetic, I thought I’d give the yard work another try. And that’s when I found the body.
A male, early twenties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, lay face down in the weeds, not ten feet from where I’d walked earlier. Good citizen that I am, I immediately called 911. Within minutes, my yard was swarming with cops and other emergency personnel.
After examining the body, one of the detectives walked over. “You discovered the body?”
I nodded, as another officer joined us.
“Tell me what led to your discovery.”
I related the gist of my activities of the day, such as they were.
Then began a series of inane questions. “You live alone here? Why’d you leave work early? What took you so long to call 911?”
“You’re acting like this guy was murdered or something.”
“We’re just trying to figure out the timeline and what happened,” one said.
“And to what extent you were involved,” his partner added.
I guess I’ve seen too many TV dramas because the first thing I said was, “So, do I need a lawyer?”
The cop shrugged. “Depends. Is there a reason you may need a lawyer?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered. “Don’t think so. Just don’t want to be blamed for this murder.”
“No one’s blaming you—yet.” The officer paused, whether for dramatic effect or to weigh his words, I wasn’t sure. “Should we be looking at you as a suspect?”
“Of course not.”
The detectives eyed me a moment. “We’ll be in touch,” one said as they turned away.
They’ll be in touch? What’s that supposed to mean? They’d said I wasn’t a suspect; was that just to keep me off-guard until they’d had time to gather enough evidence to build a case?
I shook my head. I must be crazy. There was no evidence. There was no case. I hadn’t done anything except find the body. I certainly hadn’t killed him.
But, they didn’t know that. And here I was acting all weird. Even I had to admit my strange behavior and ramblings appeared suspicious. The police likely thought so too.
And that’s how I ended up seeing a criminal defense attorney for a crime I hadn’t committed.
“Sounds like you’re a bit paranoid,” said the attorney after I’d filled him in.
“Paranoid, huh?” I said, somewhat sheepishly.
He smiled. “A little.”
I couldn’t think of an intelligent response, so I just sat there.
“Tell you what,” he said, breaking my uncomfortable abeyance. “I’ll keep my notes and if you’re arrested, call me.”
“Thanks. Hope I don’t need to.”
“If you didn’t commit the murder, they can’t exactly find any evidence. Although…”
I frowned. “Although what?”
They could always charge you with manslaughter if anything you’ve done, intentionally or unintentionally, contributed to the man’s death.”
“Right. I didn’t even know he was there until I found the body.”
“It’s most likely nothing to worry about. But you never know.”
As I stood to leave, he added, “If you are arrested, don’t say anything until I’m present. You’ve already given your statement. That’s all you’re obligated to do.”
Nodding, I left.
Just talking to the lawyer had helped. The anxiety I’d felt earlier was gone. Feeling better about my prospects, I drove home and was utterly shocked to find two police cars in my driveway, the officers knocking at my door.
As I parked, they came toward me. “Mr. Powell?”
“That’s me.”
“Can we come in and talk?”
I hesitated. The attorney had said to say nothing if I were arrested. He hadn’t mentioned anything about not being arrested. “Depends,” I finally managed. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” the officer said. “We just want to clarify a few things with you.”
I repeated what the lawyer had told me. “I’ve already given my statement. That’s all I’m obligated to do.”
“You’re not interested in helping solve this murder?”
I certainly was interested in solving the murder, but something told me that “helping” might have an entirely different meaning to them. “I’ve already given my statement,” I said again.
The officers looked perturbed. “Well,” one said, reaching for his handcuffs. “You leave us no choice then. Mr. Powell, you are under arrest in connection with the murder of Vincent Dalhart.”
As the cop handcuffed me, I focused on what he’d said. I wasn’t being arrested for the murder but in connection with the murder. I wasn’t sure what that meant if anything. I hoped it meant they didn’t actually think I’d killed the man.
The next two days were a blur of numerous meetings with the detectives and my attorney. Through these conversations, I finally learned what had happened.
Vincent Dalhart had been stabbed to death. There were four puncture wounds, evenly spaced. Two had pierced a vital organ. The time of death was uncertain although, the medical examiner estimated it to be five hours before I, the only suspect, had stumbled onto the body.
Meanwhile, the police had executed a search warrant for my property, finding my rake, which they believed to be the murder weapon. Lab testing confirmed that blood present on the tines was that of the victim. Murder in the first degree was the charge.
To his credit, my lawyer seemed undaunted by the discovery. I told him about seeing the rake and putting it away. He seemed satisfied. “But the police will want to know how you didn’t notice any blood on the rake.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Not sure how I missed that.”
He shrugged. “Easy enough explanation. The blood was only on the tines—probably not a large amount. By the time you picked it up, the blood had likely dried. It would’ve been very difficult to see unless you were specifically looking for it.”
Unfortunately, the police were specifically looking for it, having determined a garden rake to be the likely murder weapon. And as my lawyer had predicted they weren’t exactly sold on my account of the events. Instead, they believed I’d used the rake to murder the man breaking into my house.
With no other options, we prepared to go to trial. My attorney seemed to like my chances. I wasn’t so confident. Here I was, a guy who’d never even been in a fight, charged with murder. It all felt so overwhelming.
Then, the next day, things took a surprising turn.
The guard came to escort me to the briefing room where my attorney waited.
“Good news,” he greeted me. “All charges have been dropped. You’ll be released within the hour.”
I was stunned. “That’s great, but… why? How?” With the direction things had been going, I found it hard to imagine the police had suddenly decided I was innocent.
“Turns out your neighbor saw the whole thing from across the street. Mr. Dalhart arrived at your house on foot, poked around; checking doors and windows, then went to the shed and retrieved the rake. Standing on your porch railing, he attempted to use the rake to pull himself up to an open second-story window. The window ledge gave way, and Mr. Dalhart fell to the ground, impaling himself on the rake.”
“But the rake was a good ten feet from the body.”
The attorney nodded. “Apparently, the would-be thief lived long enough to remove the rake and fling it away.”
I was frowning. “My neighbor watched all this and didn’t even try to help? Or, report it? Not that I care, really. The thief got what he deserved. But how does someone just watch all that and not do anything?”
The lawyer shrugged. “People are strange. Maybe he didn’t want to be involved. Who knows? He’s been arrested and faces legal troubles over his lack of humanity.”
“I would hope so.”
“Just be glad he eventually came forward.”
“I am.” I fell silent then.
The attorney noticed my gaze. “What is it?”
I smiled wryly. “Was just thinking… That window ledge has been loose for quite a while, banging in the wind. Been meaning to fix it for months, just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
Eyeing me a moment, the lawyer said, “You might want to keep that information to yourself.”
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Over My Dead Body Book Trailer
To learn more about Bruce:
*Author Showcase
Thank you for supporting this member along the WATCH “RWISA” WRITE Showcase Tour today! We ask that if you have enjoyed this member’s writing, to please visit their Author Page on the RWISA site, where you can find more of their writing, along with their contact and social media links, if they’ve turned you into a fan. WE ask that you also check out their books in the RWISA or RRBC catalogs. Thanks, again for your support and we hope that you will follow each member along this amazing tour of talent! Don’t forget to click the link below to learn more about this author:
(Bruce A. Borders) RWISA Author Page
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