Reunion

Reunion

There's a little Rosewood Casket

Resting on a marble stand     

with a packet of old love letters

written by my true love's hand 

"Little Rosewood Casket"

(recorded by Dolly Parton

 and many others)



Morning

It was early Fall, leaves turning, evening sun sinking lower in the afternoon sky every day.  Just now the sunrise was filtering through the tall black oaks of the surrounding woods.  It was an early morning in his eighty third year.  He is widowed, retired, and living alone save for his faithful little beagle, the birds and squirrels around the feeders the noisy old wall clocks throughout the various rooms. A huge old grandfather clock that stands sentinel by the staircase booming out the Westminster chimes on the quarter hour and striking the hour with all the enthusiasm and tones of the original Big Ben if not the full outdoor volume has just announced the seventh hour of what looks to be a beautiful day.  He has not been able to stand the quiet of an empty house since she went away.

***

He sat quietly in front of the blank laptop screen and watched pair of late spring fawns at the far edge of the woods, silhouetted against the late summer brown of the meadow beyond.  They were nibbling at the few remaining leaves of the underbrush just near the tree line and frolicking with their mother from time to time.  The twins' mother, still in her spring coat of soft brownish tan, kept a careful watch from the nearby stand of wild mountain laurel and made occasional playful romps with them.  The house was quiet just now.  Empty quiet.  Except for the clocks and Willy the pup who was still snoozing, upside down on the living room couch.  Almost three years since she passed!  How time flies, yet seems to drag agonizingly at times. It was gonna' be one of those mornings.  His mind wandered.  "Wonder what things are like back home now."
("Home" would always be the red gravel/clay hills of Crowleys Ridge in the northeast of Arkansas.)

He drifted back ..........

Memories

............ to the Summer of '52.  Home to help with the spring crops, from the small, store-front business college and back to being a farm hand again.  His dad had hurt his back badly and needed a hand driving the little two row Farmall and do some of the heavy lifting.  He loved to drive the tractor and had a knack for other machinery.  Could never deal with the horses, though, they always seem to sense that he didn't care for them and therefore was not one to be listened to.  He had gone to a business college straight out of High School the year before.  It was just a storefront building located on Madison Avenue in Memphis; two levels crammed with desks and classrooms, teaching the basics of typing, penmanship, bookkeeping and office machines with a smattering of law and math thrown if for good measure. Working at a part time job, bringing home less than twenty dollars per week and paying half that for a room and two meals a day at a boarding house left around two dollars per day for lunch, bus fare and entertainment.  Lunches (if any) and boarding house meals were not quite the same as the "farm hand dinners" he had been used to at home and his baby fat had, unnoticed to him, dropped away to a much more normal 140 pounds from the chubby 190 of high school days.

***

Then came the letter.  Most wonderful piece of correspondence he had ever seen Perhaps he could not be sure of the exact wording, but it was an invitation to friendship and he never forgot how it was signed.  "Love, Peggy". Could remember anyone ever using that term to him; certainly never a girl. Then came the letter.  They traded letters back and forth and when he came home in the spring to help with the crops, they dated. She was almost 17; he barely 18.  It was early April now; they dated with intense regularity.

She was his first love and they were both smitten.  Crowded pickup truck double-dating with his long time buddy and his girl. Saturday nights in town, maybe going to the late show. sometimes parking out by the lake, just the two of them. He was completely and totally in love with the most wonderful girl he had ever seen, met or kissed, as only teenagers can be and he was certain she felt likewise.  He had given her his high school ring, one of his most precious possessions, solid 14K gold complete with the high school emblem and the school's initials emblazoned on the top.  His year of graduation was on the sides, 19 on one side and 51 on the other.  His own initials engraved on the inside of the band.  He had even used up his last pay to buy a gold chain so she could wear it around her neck.  Paul was in heaven and he knew it!  Late June now, farm work slowing down.  Her birthday was soon and he had already bought her gift, a gold compact, which was as an intimate a gift as he dared at this point.

***

Then the crash!  The world ended.  The lights went out!
No disagreement, no argument, no transgression that he could think of,  nothing!
She just wouldn't talk, wouldn't respond to any communication.
Why?  He could not understand. Could not believe it.
What to do?  No frame of reference in his world.  No  prior experience to draw on.
Saturday night?  Well, go to town alone, just maybe .....
Took the old pickup, luckily found a parking spot near the theater and waited.  As she approached, he had opened the truck door and stepped out to stand by side of the raggedly old Ford, as she walked by on the sidewalk accompanied by a couple of younger sisters.  She never looked at him. Actually she did look, but not at him, more like, through him, and never missed a step. They bought their tickets and went inside.  There was no chain around her neck.

***

He was still standing there fifteen minutes later, just staring at the theater marquee.
"Pauley!" someone shouted from a parking spot on the square.
"Hey!" came another shout from his long-time friend and schoolmate from the community.
"Hi, Freddy," he responded weakly and waved back as Fred dodged through the early traffic, mostly kids, cruising the square, "Been here long?".
"Just got here, working late today, by yourself?  Where's the girlfriend?
"Inside, he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. She ain't talking to me for some reason.
"So what did you do now?
"Nothin' that I can think of, she just walked right past me and didn't even look.
"I was thinking of going to  the movie, see if I could get a conversation started with someone.
"Well, the girls are probably sitting down front, probably in the first four or five rows,  Maybe they'll talk to you." He said, with more than a trace of sarcasm
"Come on, go with me.
"Naw, think I'll just go home.

***

So, he gathered up his pride and slowly and carefully drove home.  He brooded.  He talked to his pal, Luther, who could sympathize but could offer no solutions.  He played the truck radio as loud as possible, but Hank Williams' "Lovesick Blues" was no help either.  In the next few weeks he went to other social events, community picnics, movies, even church, talked to other girls, suggested dates, etc. but with little or no success. He was a marked man. He was "Peggy's friend", and  therefore not in the market.  His misery continued well into the fall, and once his father was able to work again, he went back to the city to complete his course of study and look for more lucrative employment.

Dreams

Lost in his memory, he dozed; he dreamed; and the dream shifted into "what might have been".   He dreamed on.

Another letter.  Beautiful envelope; it even smelled nice.  He recognized the smooth flowing cursive of the return address.  It was from Peggy, longer note this time. 

 

Haven't heard from you lately [she said] and I wondered how you were doing in the big city.  I really enjoyed the time we were able to spend together while you were home, and I really hope we can still be friends.  When will you be coming back?  I will be graduating soon and I really don't know what my plans are for after that.  Hope to see you soon.

And again, it was signed,  "Love, Peggy".

 

Those magic words again.  Not a word about her "cold shoulder" behavior, or any attempt at either apology or explanation, but the signature was the only thing he really saw. The rest didn't matter. He wanted to go home.  So he went; said goodbye to the girlfriend, quit his job, left his classes in mid term, packed his few belongings in the back seat of the battered '46 Ford and went back to Clay County with no idea of any source of income or any plan for the future.  He was in love, and nothing else mattered.

Moved back to the farm with his parents, helped with the crops there and did day work for other farmers while he tried to find employment.  And dated the girl with whom he was hopelessly in love.  There were Saturday nights in town, late movies and afternoon drives in the country after church services on Sunday.  Even Wednesday night church "prayer meetings", and a lot of close contact in the pickup truck.  They talked of marriage and planned a wedding in the spring; he even screwed up his courage and, in a short terror laced meeting, asked her father's blessing. 

The dream continued, fast forwarding through years farming a mortgaged forty acres of good bottom land, struggling to make payments on the costly equipment, seeing prices drop as the big acreage farmers became able to produce more for less.  It was the when the death knell of the small family farm tolling quietly; but they didn't hear it.  The family grew with the addition of three children, then four, then.....

He awoke in a sweat, wondering just where he was and when it was....

and realized finally that it was only a dream,
 

That was not what had happened.

***

He was awake now, and his failing memory, so problematic regarding the very recent, was clearly in focus as he recalled what had really happened.

Since there was now nothing in Clay County for him, he had gone back to the city and, through the help of a friend, secured a starting level job in a local wholesale bakery, boxing bread and loading trucks.  Not a fancy of "sittin' down" job, but the pay was reasonably good, far better than parking cars or jerking sodas as he had been doing. He worked nights and went to school days. Soon, with his brother's signature, (he was barely eighteen) was making payments on a tired old '46 Ford and dating a dark haired, hundred-pound farm girl from the hills of Mississippi who was also studying at the College.  Things were looking up.

 His mind raced on as the past seventy years flooded his memory.   Love, marriage, army time, problem pregnancies, children, a boy and a girl, now with families of their own and scattered.  Divorce, remarriage, another divorce, marriage, death and now here he was, all by himself, comfortable, well fed, well housed, but alone.  Good friends, still working some, hobbies, and so on, but he still had to scratch his own back.

"It been a good life, and God knows I'm grateful, but sometimes wonder just what might have happened ......."

Contact 

His train of thought ground to a halt as the phone rang. 

"Now who the hell could be calling at this early hour?"

"Hello," he answered rather gruffly.

"Mr. Broussard?", the voice was slow, soft and masculine but professional in manner.  The name was pronounced 'BRUSS-erd", not the 'bru-SARD' that he had become accustomed to since moving to the East Coast.  He had long since given up trying to preserve the way that only the folks of his home state pronounced it. He was alert and a bit suspicious.  Had not spoken with anyone from 'down home' in years.

"Yes"

"John Paul Broussard, formerly of Clay County Arkansas?

He hesitated a moment. "I am.  Call me Paul."

"Thank God I've found finally found you, I think I have called everyone on the East coast with your last name."

"So?"

"You don't know me, sir, but my name is Johnathan P. Hopkins, of the firm Hopkins, Matthews and Cole LLC of St. Louis Missouri."

"And?"

"We represent the estate of Mrs. Margaret Elaine Hopkins. I'm her Personal Representative.  She was my mother."

"Who?"

"You may have known her as Peggy Mathews; Mathews being her maiden name.  Apparently you two were friends in high school?"

"Peggy Mathews!  well, I'll be damned!  Yes we were."

"Mr. Broussard, I am here in Baltimore and I would like to meet with you.  At your convenience, of course.  I have some things of yours to return.  When can we meet?", again, the 'down home' pronunciation of his name.

"What things?"

"I would prefer to show you when we meet.  When would you be available, and where would be convenient?"

He thought for a minute. "MacDonalds, Westminster, on Route 140.  I should be in there about 10 tomorrow morning.  I 'll buy you coffee. I eat breakfast there most every morning." He lied, always made his own breakfast.  He wanted time to think.  Perhaps he should take someone along.

"Very well, I will see you then. Thank you for seeing me."

"You're welcome."

He sat for a long time just gazing into the woods, thinking.  And wondering.

***

"You won't believe what just happened to me!" he said when Vern picked up the phone.

"What?"

"I will tell you all about it tomorrow morning.  Stop by MacDonalds about 9:30, someone I want you to meet. This guy called me with information about years ago in Arkansas.  Not sure he's for real so I would like you there just in case."

"That's all you are going to tell me?"

"Yep"

Revelation

He had already seated himself with a large black coffee and a cookie in one of the most out of-the way booths in a remote corner when Vern strolled down the aisle with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and an Egg McMuffin in the other. 

"So where is this mystery man, and what's the big secret?  You afraid of getting molested or something?"

"He ain't here yet, wanted to give you a little background before he gets here, and wanted someone else's opinion of this guy's authenticity."

"So, what gives?"

"Guy says he's from a law firm representing the estate of an old girlfriend of mine from about a hundred years ago.  Said he had something to return to me."

"What?"

"Wouldn't say."

"Weird!  What's his name?"

"Johnathan something or other. Said she was his mother."

"Well, I can't wait to hear this."

***

He was maybe sixty or sixty-five years of age, slim, well dressed but casual in a sporty gold golf shirt and tailored brown slacks, and Italian loafers. Of medium build, with graying temples and a well tanned forehead which was receding into thinning hair on top.  He carried a letter-sized folder with a tied-down flap in his right hand, a steaming cup of coffee in his left, and he hesitated for a few seconds as he surveyed the room, his eyes settling on the two seniors loafing in the corner booth.

"Mr. Broussard?"

"Over here."

"I'm Johnathan Hopkins.  Call me John, or Johnny," he smiled, "May I sit?"

"Sure, I'm Paul, this is my friend, Vernon Appley. Vern, sit over here with me; give the man a seat."

"Thanks, pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for agreeing to meet.  Beautiful morning isn't it?"

"'Tis indeed, sir.  You're the lawyer?"

"Senior partner, Hopkins, Mathews and Cole, St. Louis."

"You're a long way from home.  Want to tell us what this is all about?"
He took a deep breath, glanced out the window, then down at the folder on the table for a moment, then looked across the table.

"My mother knew she didn't have much more time when the cancer came back.  She had undergone months of chemotherapy and had been told that she was 'in remission'.  But it came back, and this time in spades.  A few days in the hospital then to the hospice for what we knew would be a week at most.

"She called me one morning and asked me to bring her small jewelry case that she had always kept on her dresser at home.  In the back corner in the bottom of the jewelry case she dug out a ring box with a rubber band stretched tightly around it, handed it to me along with a sealed envelope. Made me promise to find you and deliver them.  That was to be the last conversation I had with her.  I have kept my promise.  They have not been opened ",  he said quietly as he placed the two items in the center of the table.

Paul stared at the envelope for a long moment, then met the gaze of the man across the table, then picked it up carefully, set the small black box in the center of the table and quietly fished a small pen knife from his pocket, carefully slit one side of the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.  He scanned it quickly, then read it again slowly and carefully then turned to Vernon.

"You better get to work, Vern, You'll be late and lose your job or something.  I think this guy's OK."  He turned and looked out the window and almost imperceptibly wiped his window side eye.

"But ........"

"Just get th' hell out of here, will you?"

"Reckon I am late, see you later..  Nice to have met you, Mr. Hopkins."
It was very quiet; Vernon retreated.

***

"So, Mr. Hopkins, John, what's the rest of the story?  I never forgot her; often wondered what had happened and how she spent the rest of her life.

"My mother and father had grown up in the same neighborhood, almost next door neighbors; schoolmates all through school.  My Dad was Edward Hopkins, same class in school as my Mom, perhaps you knew him?"

"Eddie Hopkins!,  Nerdy kid, always kept pretty much to himself, wore thick glasses and was always reading. Sure I knew him, not friends, but I knew who he was.  Go on."

"Mom said you and she had dated and things were getting pretty serious.  Her birthday was coming up in July and she suspected that you were about to ask the big question.  She knew that farm country and farming were not a life you had envisioned; you were looking to a bigger life in the city and beyond. All of her life and all her family and friends were in her home community and she feared being placed in a position where she would be asked to choose.  So she decided to preempt the situation by breaking her friendship with you and turning to her lifelong friend.  They were married quietly at the county seat in Corning, late in June.  After a short honeymoon in the Ozarks, the rented a small apartment in Poplar Bluff; I was born the following year.  Father went on to the University of Missouri for both his undergraduate work and law school, and partnered with an older attorney in Dexter and eventually took over the small town practice.  My uncle Thomas, (Mom's younger brother), came to the firm after Dad's partner retired and Jimmy Cole came along a few years later.  Dad moved the practice to St. Louis, where it thrived.   I completed law school,  joined the firm and became senior partner after father retired.  He died five years ago."

***

Paul quietly read the letter again and looked up at Hopkins, who returned his gaze impassively.

His gaze returned to the ring box, picked it up and watched the old rubber band crumble in his hand as he tried to remove it.  He pried the box open and out fell an old style high school class ring with a thin gold chain attached.   He picked up carefully and held it up to the sunlight coming through the window. The letters PHS were clearly emblazoned on it's face.  On one shoulder were the letters 19 and on the other side, 51.  Inside the band were the engraved letters "JPB".  Then quietly: "It's my ring, all right."

He looked at the ring again, held it up to the sunlight then placed it carefully back in the box, re-read the letter one more time, folded it carefully and slid it back into its envelope, tucked it in his shirt pocket and looked across the table.

Hopkins met his gaze with an impassive face and neither blinked for a very long moment.

"Do you have any siblings, Mr. Hopkins?

" Johnathan, please. No, I am an only child."

"I'm sure you  miss your Mom."

"I do. We were quite close."

"If you don't mind, when is your birthday?"

"January the 14th"

"January 14, 1953?"

"They said I was premature."

"then I guess you were a small baby then?" another steady gaze, similarly met.

"Seven pounds, five and one half ounces." He smiled and flushed slightly.

A long pause, then, "She told you". It was not a question.

"Yes"

"Well, I will be damned!  As God is my witness, I did not know."

"Neither did I until a few weeks ago."

"Always felt there must have been a reason; believed that she could not have been cruel as it looked. I was so angry for so long; now I'm sort of ashamed."

"No way you could have known."

"Well, it's good to know you, Johnnie." extending his hand across the table.  "Your middle initial, "P", what does the "P" stand for?"

He smiled, "Paul".

End









Billy and me go sailin'

Billy and Me go Sailin'

Disclaimer

This story is based on a real event.  Names have been changed to protect the guilty, but the geography is mostly correct.   Any mistakes in sailing nomenclature and/or jargon are mine alone and are due probably to my landlubber background and my lack of serious seafaring experience.  Bill is still a good friend, and will be at least until he reads this story.  Enjoy!

Prologue

"Got a minnit?"  sez Billy, as he stuck his head into my office door late one afternoon.

Sure Bill, What's up?

Still got that sailboat?

Sure, why? I ventured, warily.

Why don't we go sailin' this weekend?  I ain't never done much with sailboats.

We?

Yeah, me and you.

Me and you?

Yeah.

Hmmmm

Thursday

It was near about quittin' time on an early June Thursday at the small firm where I was the "head of the purchasing department".  Actually, I was the department head, the chief purchasing agent, and, save for my secretary and assistant, the entire departmental staff.  But the title sounded nice and looked good on my business card.  "Billy", or Bill, as he preferred, was, (and still is), officially, William Thomas Jackson Robertson III of somewhere in the Tidewater, maybe Carolina. He is, actually, the great, great grandson of the youngest, but least known confederate general officer.  He was, at that time, a rather new "old friend".  Bill worked for the local branch of one of the national office machine manufacturers and sold small machines like typewriters, calculators and the like. He had called at our office one day last fall and the remaining remnants of the dialects of my upbringing in the Mid-South recognized the tones and  rhythms of awhile back. A kindred spirit, perhaps. We never bought more than one or two pieces of equipment from his company, but we did introduce him to our regional office where he found a lot more success.  But he still stopped by with some regularity; I always had time to talk.  We found we had similar interests, similar backgrounds, and consequently become fast friends.  Big difference was that he grew up in the low country and I was a landlubber from the mid south, lately trying to act like a knowledgeable boat owner.  We still are good friends, for that matter. Both of retired now, but we still talk.


"Thought you were stayin' home nowadays, helpin' Cassie have that baby." I remarked with a trace of a smirk.
"And I thought you were happily married, spendin' all your spare time at home with th' lovin' wife."  he countered, without missing a beat.
"Touche',
"No seriously, how's Cassie?
"Down home at her mother's.  Things ain't goin' to well.  Doc sez that this is a very "precious" pregnancy, perhaps her only, and that we damn well better take the best possible care, which includes having a hospital in the vicinity and somebody nearby most all the time.
Not a terribly unheardof situation, I thought, remembering all the problems encountered with my wife's first. "Guess we are in similar straits," I ventured. 
Bill knew that I had no one at home but the two teenagers since my wife had had enough of me, and that both my kids were responsible, mature young adults who managed quite well alone for short periods.  I had no current romantic activities to speak of.


"So what do you have in mind?
"Well, you got a sailboat, right? and we both got nothin' to do for the weekend.
"Yeah, OK,
"SO, . . . , what say we take off tomorrow after work and spend the weekend on the bay?  Here's the deal, you furnish the boat and I'll bring all the necessary supplies. It'll be great.
"Bill, it's only a little 21 ft rig, not a lot of elbow room for two guys for 48 hours straight.. Only a portable head; no galley at all.
"It'll be OK, look, I'll meet you at the boat 'bout six o'clock with everything we need, deal?

***


Hindsight told me somewhat later that I should have given this proposal a bit more thought, but I foolishly agreed and began thinking of some sort of  a plan for the trip. I remembered there was ample gas in the tank for the little time we would need the little six horse outboard.  I had created a small crack in the motor mount a few weeks ago, banging into a piling while backing into my slip during a bit of wind, but it seemed still solid and anyways I could always tie a small line on the motor, just in case.  Otherwise it was good to go. Bill had grown up on the water and was totally comfortable out there.  He had sailed some, but almost all his boats had been of the power variety.  My one experience in sailing with him had almost gotten me knocked overboard by a careless or unintentional(?) jibe.  He certainly knew the pointy end of the boat from the square one; no problem regarding the crew.

***

 I, on the other hand, had had trainin',  Went to a sailing class down on |South River in Annapolis one weekend.  It was for instructors and was sponsored by the Red Cross.  Near 'bout killed me.  First, they embarrassed me.  As I said, the flyer said it was for instructors, and my being a first aid instructor, I signed up.  So far, so good, however, one the first events, was sort of an orientation on Friday night, where the group was asked, "how many of you are not swimming instructors?  Looking around after I had raised my hand, I noted that I was the only one with a hand in the air and everyone was looking at sort of strangely.  Our leader said quietly, "The rest of you, meet me in the classroom, and, you, (pointing at me) come with me."   He then grabbed a PFD (life preserver, for you rookies) and led me to the nearby Olympic size pool outside.  No problem, I thought, I know about those things.  Wrong!  I was led to the deep end (when they say deep, they mean it), and said calmly,  "Here's what we're going to do. (I soon realized he meant that this really didn't mean that he was going to participate to any significant degree.).  Oh, by the way, you might want to empty your pockets if you have anything in them.  Just lay your stuff over there.  You (see, it's just me now) are going to jump in the  deep end here, out a ways from the ladders and rails. I will be back in about five minutes or so when I will then toss the life preserver into the pool, at the other (shallower) end.  You will then swim down there, put on the PFD while still in the water, fasten it properly on your body, swim over to the ladder and climb out". 
"If I'm still alive,", I thought.
 I should note here that I have never been a good swimmer, not even a passable novice swimmer.  After having had to be pulled rather embarrassingly from the lake during a high school outing after overturning a canoe, (no PFD for me, thanks) I had made an effort to learn to not be so afraid of the water, and had learned to swim a few strokes, but no marathons over thirty seconds that I could remember.  I figured that the weekend was almost over, and it wasn't even dark yet on Friday night.
Longest five minutes I have ever spent in  my life; thought he would never get back.  I somehow managed to keep my head above water, still not sure just how, and was about out of gas when he returned.  He tossed the PFD in about halfway down, out of kindness, I suppose;  I dogpaddled, gasping, over to it and managed, to get on properly.  I survived the rest of the weekend, but it took a day or two to recover.  Like I said, I had been to training.  I knew about these things.

Friday

The Marina had the rather unpoetic name of "Nabbs Creek Marina" and, as you might guess, was huddled up tight at the head of (you guessed it), Nabbs Creek.  Wasn't exactly the head of the creek; just as far up as one could go without wading.  Nabbs Creek branches off Stoney Creek a couple of hundred yards after you go through the Ft Smallwood drawbridge, coming in from the bay, then about a mile up the creek you pass a couple of  marinas, then, there at the very end  you come to a nondescript and disorganized group of aging boat slips, and that's my marina. 
Nothing fancy about it, it was in good shape, as marinas go, but it's rather ancient slips and walkways were beginning to take on the colors of a hundred year old Pennsylvania barn.  It was populated by, maybe 27 aging cabin cruisers in the 25 to 32 ft range, one rather old ketch of about 40 feet with a young live-aboard couple, the female of which gave ever growing signs of pregnancy, and, of course, my little 21 ft sloop rigged O'Day.  Cap'n Gus, (never heard a last name), a retirement age waterman of the Tilghman Island variety, was a combination deck hand, Harbor Master, and owner, as well as being the cook and waiter for the little lunchroom.  Made great crabcakes for only a dollar and always had ice cold beer.. Dutifully called  me "Cap'n", although. I was never sure whether this was out of respect or just sarcasm due to the size of my command; maybe it was at least partly because he couldn't remember my name.  Anyway, to continue.......

***

It was about 5:47, Friday afternoon when I pulled in to the parking space at the end of "A Dock" (There was only two, A and B, each with ten or twelve slips).  There was Bill, comfortably seated on top of a large cooler, which was not quite closed due to excess contents, with brown paper bag and two cartons of cans, one emblazoned  with "Anhaeuser Busch" on the side; the other one was marked "Coors Brewery, Golden Co.  He was sipping from one of the silver and yellow cans.. "This stuff ain't quite cold yet, just trying a sample.  Got one case in the cooler, they will be OK in a few minutes, store didn't have any more cold ones, it bein' Friday evenin' 'n all.". Plenty of ice, though.
I peeked inside the brown paper bag; to my amazement, in addition to the large package of sliced bologna, (maybe a pound and a half) a chunk of cheese, (unsliced), a small jar of mayo and a small jar of pickles, there was a loaf of bread, two huge packages of potato chips and a large mouth gallon jar with some unrecognizable but suspicious looking content.  Additionally, there was a small, battered, battery-powered "BoomBox", already on and, not so softly, playing the sounds of Merl Haggard from Baltimore's only "country" radio station.
"What's in the jar, Bill?" I asked, trying to keep a straight face; although thought I knew.
"Pig Knuckles", he sez proudly.
"What?"
"Pigs Knuckles", ever had 'em?" His tone carried a slight indication that he might have just witnessed a gross example of either ignorance and/or stupidity, or both.
"Don't think so", hiding my wariness as best I could.  I had grown up of the farm where we raised and butchered our own pork, but we drew the line at some parts being utilized as food, pig feet being one of them;  we knew all too well the surroundings in they had spent their entire existence.
"You will love 'em,  They are really good!
" If you say so,
"What else did you get?
"That's it, man, we got everything we're gonna need".


This was followed by what we writers sometimes refer to as a 'pregnant pause'. However........

***

"So, lets load  up." I said cheerfully, thinking, "It will be OK, it really will, we got beer, it's a clear day, not too warm, not a cloud in the sky, no sign of rain.  There's a light wind from the North, the "Suzy K" is a good little forgiving sail, there's good company, good music and few worries for the moment.  Life is good as are the prospects for a great weekend. No problem!"
Bill leaped nimbly into the cockpit and removed the boards from the cabin.  I slid him the cooler and the boxes which he stashed on the "v" berth, and placed the cooler just inside where it could be easily reached.  The bologna and cheese as well as the mayo were squeezed into the cooler.  The radio was tied loosely to the mast.  He tossed the bag of sails out into the cockpit with a distainful, "you'll have to sort these things out".  I  rigged the sails while he lowered the motor and connected the gasoline tank.  "Better put a line on that, just in case" I said casually, handing him a short piece of 3/8" line from the bag.
"I reckon we're ready, cut 'er loose".
The little six horse Johnson purred quietly as the Suzy K slid more or less gracefully out of the slip and down the creek.  I pulled the tab on a Bud.  We were on our way!

***

The Suzy K,(for "Kreemcheeze") like I said, was only twenty one feet and draws only two.  She took her name in honor of a good friend, the details of whose friendship I cannot disclose and will not discuss, even at this late date.  Her shallow keel ran the full length of the boat and gave her reasonably good lateral stability with minimum draft, an excellent small sailboat for the Chesapeake's sometimes shallow waters. She was quite forgiving, which also proved to be important for a landlubber captain. A sloop rig, she had a reefing main and a couple of different sized jibs for varying wind conditions.  Not fast under sail and even slower with power.

We  were in no hurry and made it to the drawbridge on Ft Smallwood road in maybe fifteen minutes.  Now this drawbridge doesn't get much action, since there are very few sailboats up Nabbs and Stoney Creeks, and most of the power boats didn't require that much room.  Ft Smallwood has always been a very busy road.  I always thought that gate operator worked nights somewhere and was on the bridge days, 'cause he was asleep most of the time.  I once had to put someone ashore to wake him after we had used up all our freon in the portable horn trying to get his attention.  This time he was either awake or was not sleeping soundly.  He began the procedure after the fourth long blast, starting with the warning traffic lights and gates to stop the cars and then the ringing alarm bell as the bridge slowly opened to allow the mast to pass through.  For reasons that should be obvious, one  may  not sail a boat through a drawbridge; it is a process that is less than precise for all but the experienced captain.

So we waved cheerily as we purred right on through as the bridge operator began his reverse procedure, presumably so as to return to his nap as soon as possible.  We glided  sedately through the twenty foot space between the two bridge support towers to the painful strains of Hank Williams' "Wild Side of Life", and purred our way on eastward.

East of the drawbridge Stony Creek widens, and,perhaps a quarter mile further, it is shielded from the bay by an array of huge rocks, most of whom are under water except at low tide.  To access the bay, one must make about a 75 or 80 degree turn to port and follow the narrow channel for about another 400 yards.  From there on it is open water all the way to the Tolchester bluffs.  Once through  the channel, I began hoisting the sails as Bill killed the motor and raised motor and mount up out of the water.  We caught the light northwest breeze and turned her bow to about 90 degrees on the compass and set out across the bay on a smooth and comfortable beam reach that should take all the away across without having to change course.   Course direction did not matter much; pretty hard to miss the entire eastern shore.   I figured, that, once across, we could turn north up the shore a ease on up to Fairlee Creek to a totatlly quiet and peaceful anchorage, protected from the wind and waves by the natural harbor therein.  The Fairlee Creek channel then was quite narrow, (worse than Stoney Creek) hugging the eastern shore for, perhaps 100 yards, then turning to Starboard abruptly for another 50 before the creek's shielded open water.  There was an old marina and small eatery on the far shore.  I had not seen Fairlee Creek for some time, and, as fate would have it, I was not to see it this weekend either.

***



 Somewhere between Tolchester and Rock Hall and perhaps three quarters of a mile off the shore, we ran out of wind.  No apparent reason, it just quit.  The boat rocked softly as we listened to Lester and Earl and a few others.  Bill tossed me another beer, looked at calmly,
"What do we do now?

"We go to Fairlee Creek, I'll pull the sails down: you put the Johnson in the water and start 'er up". 

 I had the main secured and was up forward bagging the jib when I  heard Bill first pull the starter rope. On the second pull, there was a roar (well, the best a 6hp could do for a roar), as the engine came alive.  The roar abated some and there was a KLUNK as Bill dropped it in to  forward gear, (too fast, I thought), then a solid SNAP/SPLASH followed by a combination "SHIT!/GRUNT". 

***

Way back in basic training a few years before I had heard the drill sergeant tell us recruits of the position he expected to us be in as we "policed" the grounds.  Said all he wanted to be able to see was "elbows and assholes".  This was what flashed in my mind when I looked to the cockpit.  There was Bill, stretched over the transom, hanging on for dear life to the motor which had snapped it's mount and had made a valiant effort to hide under the boat.  It had drowned itself in the effort and was still secured so the only force at work here was gravity, but that was more than enough, considering the weight of outboards, however small and the position this one had worked itself into.

***

"Need a hand, Billy?", I chuckled, as I dropped into the cockpit  The look he gave me over his left shoulder would have curdled cream, had there been any within twenty feet,

"You could say that." he said, not too quietly. the adrenalin still active.

 Together, we wrestled the motor with most its mount over the transom and into the cockpit.  the 3" cast aluminum tube that connected the upright flat portion to which the motor was clamped, to the piece that was bolted to the transom, had snapped off cleanly at the the transom mount.  Further examination revealed that the crack caused by my previous encounter with the piling was not the visible one inch hairline visible, but, in fact, had been an all-the-way-through full semi-circle break in the lower half of the tube.  Lucky it had held that long. 

We sat, one on either side of the cockpit, staring at the motor and mount fragment in the center.  For a very long moment, Willy Nelson was the only voice to be heard; then the DJ was just beginning loudly to repeat his somewhat limited play list, accompanied by comments, that, at the moment, struck me as being both lame and inane. 

***

"Fine kittle of fish you've gotten us into now, Ollie." says Bill  "What now?"

"Well, I'm, going forward, tie off the damn anchor line, and see just how far I can throw the sonofabitch.  Why don't you see if you can stash this thing somewhere out of the way?,  and while you're at it, would you turn that damn radio down a bit. PLU-EASE!'  My sense of humor had just about left the building.

"OK, Ok, Don't yell at me, it was your damn busted bracket anyway. Here, have a beer."

"Sorry! Piss on it  all, This is enough for the day. 'I''ll think about this tomorrow', at Tara."

"Where's Tera?"

"TARA!, don't you go to th' movies?

"Oh, that Tera"

Saturday

The sun was just a white-yellow bright spot in the thick morning mist as I opened my eyes.  It must have already been 90 degrees and there was not a breath of air.  The dew was dripping off everything and my swim suit was soaked.  I peeped out of the cabin and surveyed the world, which at this moment, consisted of Billy, seated in the cockpit with his feet on the disabled Johnson, sipping on a beer and chomping soggy potato chips. I could barely see the bow in the unbelievably dense mist, and no more than 30 feet in any direction.  The bay was a pea soup slick sea of glass; the halyards hung limply off the mast.  Nothing! No wind. Not even enough wave action to rock the boat in the slightest.

"Harrumph"

"What now, Cap,"  sez Bill, looking up with what some might call a 'shit-eatin' grin'.

"How th' hell should I know! It's for sure we ain't goin' nowhere in this wind."

"Cain't be more'n five feet of water out there, we might as well go swimmin',  Water could be a little cooler than this muck, and it's only a little thicker."

"Well, don't lose sight of the boat." as I leaned over the rail and dropped like a sack of potatoes into the waters of the beautiful Chesapeake.

***

It was cooler, but not much, And that's how we spent the next hour until the fog began to drift off and the boat began to tighten the anchor line. We had discussed the current problem at some length last evening, until boredom, hillybilly music and alcohol overcame us.  In that somewhat foggy discussion we had concluded that if the Johnson could be somehow secured to the boat in a way so that the business end could reach the water, we might somehow reach salvation.  To do this we would need a timber or beam of some length and strength to allow it being secured to either the gunwale, transom or across the cockpit.  The only thing on board that came even close to meeting our specifications for this project was the boom.  We could probably round up enough line to tie it down by using the halyards.  However using the boom would probably make the mainsail worthless and thereby destroy our most reliable means of propulsion when (or if) the wind did return. All this was, of course, based on the assumption that, even if solidly secured, the saltwater soaked outboard would indeed start. At about this point it was unanimously agreed that, considering our present situation as we knew it and the prospects both known and presumed, there was no reasonably workable solution to be had at the moment, whereupon we decided to retire for the evening and give it further consideration in the morning.

***

"Think th' wind might be stirrin',"

"So what did'ya do, send out a dove? "

" Yeah, she come back with a pull tab. No, really.  Wet your finger and hold it up; cool side shows the direction of the wind."

" Ain't no cool side, wet or dry, and in this soup there can't be a dry side either."

"If you say so."

"Comin' outta th' north by nor'west, here soon, cooler too."

"You been watchin' too many old movies."

But it did come.  The fog blew away and a nice cool breeze of about five knots began to move the boat southeast of the anchor.

"Let's us make some sail"

"To where?"

"Should be somebody in Annapolis who could fix this, even on a Saturday.   If this breeze holds, we can make 'Napolis in a few hours without changing sail even once."

Wind came up to about seven and off we went.

***

'Till somewhere off the mouth of the Magothy, where the wind died. Dead!  Very and absolutely dead!  And, without the breeze, the sun became close to intolerable.  But that was the least of our worries.

"'know where we are?"

"Sure, that's Gibson Island over and the Magothy just to the right and the Bay Bridge is off to our left, or port side."

"But do you realize where we really are?"

"Where?"

"We are sittin' dead in the water, in the middle of the main shipping channel, you know,  where the big ones coming up the bay heading for Baltimore. Big ones, I  mean really big ones, and they do move right along and you can tell 'em that sailboats have the right of way if you want, but I doubt they really want to hear it."

"Yeah, and we're damn' near out of ice, too."

***

One little puff of wind at a time, coming along about every ten or fifteen minutes, for the next six hours we somehow managed to get clear of the channel, and up the Magothy a short ways.

It was nearin' sundown when we finally struggled up the marina and crashed gently into the first dock we saw.

"You folks got any ice?'

"You best be askin' it they can fix this motor mount."

"Man, forget it, nobody's gonna fix it at this time of the week, even if they had the parts and or the skills.  That motor mount will have to be welded or replaced.  We best just restock the cooler, and see if we can get out there towards that little island and go back to sleep.  I seen several of those small cabin sailboats go out there an' stop.  Most with young couples; guys look military, maybe middies from the Academy?"

"Could be. they'll probably think you're my date."

***

There was still a lot of light and, as we caught a couple of puff of wind and cleared the dock.  Then, wonder of wonders, the sails filled some and caught the wind, this time coming at us from the southeast, of more specifically, directly up the narrow channel from the bay into the river.  Bill allowed that, since we now had wind, why don't we just go home.  "Oh sure," says I,  "First, we still have no power, second, we know just how dependable the wind is, thirdly, it's gonna be dark soon, and lastly, I have never been out on the bay at night in anything that floats, and certainly not in a powerless sailboat with captain and crew who have all been drinkin'."

"This thing got lights?"

"Probably enough battery to last a few hours."

"Got charts?"

"Sort of,"

"It'll be a piece of cake."

"We'll have to tack our way out of here into the bay."

"Well, you're the one that went to sailing class."  Bill says as he climbed over the outboard and dropped into the cabin. "I'll shove this motor into the V-berth out of the way. I got to use th' head, You fill this portable thing 'fore we left?

" It has solution in it, but just go over the side."

" Not this time."

We had just finished the second short port tack and had just started the second when I had a brilliant idea.  I decided that since the boat only drew about two feet of water, I could cut across the tip of Gibson Island, outside the channel and save a little time and energy by not having to do another repetition of the tacking.  I was feelin a bit smug as she scooted along on, heeled over maybe ten degrees when I heard a "CRRRUUNNCH  and the boat slowed slightly.

"What was that?", came a voice from the cabin.

"Sounds like gravel to me, GET UP HERE"

"Yep, sure looks like gravel too," says Bill, peering over the side.

By now the Suzy K had stopped all forward motion and every small push from the wind on her starboard created another crunch and moved us another few inches toward the island.

I had an inspiration: "Bill, jump over the side, not ever knee deep out there, go up and push the bow over, I will catch the wind just like we had come about, and just maybe we can sail this thing off the gravel." 

With a look of sincere disbelief, he vaulted over the side, splashed his way up to the bow and gave a mighty shove.  She shuddered a bit then gave way and swung around.  Sails caught the wind, she heeled over to starboard, cleared the gravel and we headed for deeper water.  Only one small problem, Bill was still overboard.

Now, picture this, Bill is still on the port side of the boat, and now the she is heeled over to the right, making the already high gunwales even higher out of the water.  In my excitement of having broken free, I forgot about Bill.   When I remembered to look for him, I saw just the reverse of what I saw when he attempted to hold the Johnson as it tried to run under the boat.  His head and hands were the only parts above the Gunwale as he clung to the winch on the side of the cockpit.  Good sense would have dictated that we go into the standard "man overboard" drill, stop the boat and effect a rescue, but it never occurred to me to do anything except put distance between us and the gravel, so I kept sailing and Bill kept hanging on.  Struggling to stay with the boat and perhaps reinforced by adrenalin, he finally managed to get a leg over the rail, pull himself over the rail, grab my extended hand, and fall in a heap at my feet.

"You sonofabitch." he gasped, with that signature grin again, "you were gonna leave me."

"I was comin' back for you soon as I got to the car."

"Thanks a lot!"
And we laughed until we hurt.

***

Once in open water, we turned the Suzy's bow hard to port and headed more or less up the west shore, hopefully to frind the Stoney Creek entry channel, some miles up the coast.  We were losing light fast.

"Take the tiller, Bill, just follow the shoreline, but keep 'er well off, may be rocks in there."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!",  says Bill, quite loudly, with a bit more than a touch of sarcasm.

A quick look at what passed for a chart revealed that we had  about  ten miles to go and a quick look around told me that we were going to do those ten miles in darkness. 

"This's gonna be a piece of cake, Bill, I have reviewed the chart."

"and?"

"All we got to do is just keep 'er well offshore, but keep the shoreline in sight, should be plenty of lights from the houses, and keep heading north by sorta northwest."

"We need to get it done before the eleven o'clock news is over."

"We don't have a TV"

"No, dumbass, most of the lights will go out in most of the houses along the shore.

"Oh, well, anyway, we should make it well before then, three hours at most if we only do three knots."

"It's nine o'clock now."

"We're just going to keep heading up the coastline till we ger to Bodkin Point, then we pass the mouth of Bodkin Creek and bear some to port into the Patapsco, past Ft Smallwood and Rocky Point and the mouth of  Rock Creek and come to the Stoney Creek channel.  Piece of cake!"

"Right", says Bill with his back turned to me, perhaps to prevent my seeing the rolling of his eyes, "and how will I know when we pass all these places?  Road signs?, Traffic lights?"

"Lights, buoys and markers have flashing lights. Each has a different flashing light, in Morse code."

"and you know all the letters?"

"Most of it," I lied, "the chart shows all that."

"Right"

And so we sped on through the night, at least two to two and a half knots in the light breeze.

***









  "I 'believe that's Stoney Creek just ahead. It's got big rocks in the mouth of the creek, so I will go on past and when we see the channel markers, turn back into the channel and then into where the creek widens out before the drawbridge." I announced in my best captainlike manner.
"Kinda narrow channel isn't it?"
"Shouldn't be a problem."
"and where the wind gonna be then?"
My brain finally kicked in.  We had been coasting along for the last hour with the southwestern breeze almost behind us about thirty degrees off the port side of the transom.  When we would come about to head up the channel, the wind would be directly in our face.
"We can't stay out here - we'll have to tack our way through."
"I seem to recall that channel's only about thirty yards wide."
"yeah, that's right."
"and you're going to tack upwind through there?"
"So, now its no longer 'we', huh?  you got any other ideas?"
"fraid not."
"Then take the flashlight up on the bow and tell me when we're running out of water.  We got rocks on the port side and junk on the other. I will see if I can get us through. Hang on, I'm comin' about."


So, with Billy hanging on to the forestay with a dying flashlight and with courage based on adrenaline, testosterone and bolstered by Budweiser, we blundered our way back and forth across the little channel, gaining a few yards with each leg. Must have taken six or eight turns before we cleared the channel into the wide expanse of the creek.
"What now? 
"Bridge ain't operating this late, and we couldn't go through under sail anyway.
"and we won't have any power tomorrow either."
"We can't deal with that tonight.  Get out the anchor."

Sunday

"Well I woke up Sunday Morning'

W' no way to hold my head that didn't hurt

An'  th ' beer I had for breakfast tasted good

so I had another for dessert"

Johnny Cash was presenting his rendition of Kristofferson's "Sunday Morning Coming Down", in his famous, albeit slightly off-key manner.  A bit too loud too, I thought; my head did hurt.

"Thought the batteries were dead."

"I lied, just got tired of listening to country music."

"Never thought I'd hear that."

"What now Kiptin? We're outta beer.  Do we make like pirates and capture us a power boat to pull us through the bridge?"

"We ain't too well armed, I don't even have a pocket knife."

"Maybe some kind passing power boat will give us a tow."

We waved madly at the first several passing motorcraft, the mosy of whom waved nonchalantly in return and roared off through the channel into the bay, We had about given up when a little eighteen foot fisherman puttered in from the bay and slowed down to ask if we needed help.  After hearing our sad tale, he agreed to give us a tow, hitched on to our anchor line and puttered up to the bridge.  When we had finally persuaded the bridgekeeper to open and were safely inside, we expressed thanks and offer to pay for the service,

"No, I won't take your money, just glad I could help."

"Say, if you're headed  up Nabbs Creek, tell someone at the marina to watch out for us, we could probably use a little help in corralling this thing into the slip."

"OK, Good Luck."

So, with just barely enough breeze to keep the mainsail full, (maneuvering in limited space is simpler with only one sail, and we were in no hurry now) we piddled our way up to the end of the creek and found a small grinning reception committee waiting. We were able to get the bow within reach of the dock, drop the sails and be man-handled into the slip,

***

Cap'n Gus, himself greeted us with a big friendly grin; he wasn't laughing at us.

"Welcome back, Captain, heard you had a little trouble."

"Yeah, guess we did, nothin' we couldn't handle", I replied, rather weakly. 
"Got any crab cakes made up?"

"Sure, c'mon in, can't wait to hear this story."



Epilogue

Bill became a father later that summer, eventually moved back to Carolina, raised an only child (son) who, when last I heard, has become a brilliant and successful lawyer.  Me, I got married again, and again, lost them both, sold the Suzy K and took up with power boats.  My eldest took to the water and is presently captaining a 75 ft private yacht in Florida. I still have a boat, a 21 ft center console, on the canal just off the Isle of Man bay at Ocean City.  Catch an occasional fish and sell a house occasionally.  See Bill now and then and we still laugh about the great weekend on the Chesapeake.


 Life is good.









Coffee

"Coffee" 

We have a contribution from a guest writer, a long time friend and co-conspirator, GBM.

(Our thanks to the storyteller himself, for one of his many tales, perhaps for the first time in print.  And my apologies for the formatting, I am still working on importing documents.)

The Robin

The Robin

The robin sits belligerently on the deck rail
glares into the northeast wind
eyes the troubled little waves
creeping up the chilly canal from the bay


she chirps and gives a tail flip
as if to say, knock it off!
it's supposed to be Spring


I wanna' get on with it,
find a helper
build a nest
lay some little blue eggs
hatch out some babies,


It's Spring, f'crap's sake!
there's work to do.
I want to see sun
and warm water
rain's OK, makes mud
mud and grass make a good nest
a little yarn to hold it together


It's Spring.  Where's that guy
who said he'd be back?
He'll turn up in a few days,
late as usual,
bring in a few twigs,
create a great fuss and bother
watch me do all the work
then sit in the tree and sing all day
says he's doing it just to keep me
warm and happy, while I work


needs to get in there and
help keep the eggs warm
least he could keep the crows away
decoy them, attack
can't win, ther're to big, but deflect 'em
keep 'em from trying to steal the eggs
or the babies; to use for their own baby food


God, do I worry,
where is that man
there's work to be done
work,  work,  work
where is he when I need him?
miss him
need him here
and I do love him so!


Where is he?


It's Spring!




fr 3/27/16