The Letter - Chapter 4

I unlocked the front door and hurried into the house, stomping my feet.  God, it’s cold out there today!

“Da-ad!  I’m home!  Hello-oh!  Anybody home?”  No answer.  He must have stepped out.  I dropped my backpack, stuffed my hat and gloves in my coat pockets and hung up my coat in the hall closet.  I walked into the kitchen to see if my dad had left a note.  He hadn’t.  No note, no text, no phone call.  I’ll give the old man some flak about that.  He’s always telling me, “I just want to know you’re safe.  It’s courtesy, not control that I ask you to let me know where you are.”

Well, he’s going to hear something from me about courtesy though I have to admit he’s pretty good about letting me know when he’s going to be out.  He must have left in a hurry.

“What’s this?” I said to the empty house.  There was a lavender envelope on top of the stack of mail on the table.  I picked it up.  It was addressed to Dad.  Hmm.  Looks like a woman’s handwriting.  There were folded sheets of lavender stationery under the envelope.  I picked up the stationery and unfolded it.

Dear George,

You may be surprised to be hearing from me after all these years. 

Ooh, this could be juicy.  I slid the letter and envelope into my math book, grabbed a diet cola from the refrigerator and walked upstairs to my bedroom.  I sat down on my bed and pulled out the letter to see who was writing love letters to my father.  I quickly flipped to the last page.

“Fondly,” and no signature.  That really stinks.  Who would write a letter on lavender stationery, in

red ink no less, and then choose not to sign it.  It was definitely a woman.  Lavender stationery, “fondly.”  Yes, definitely a woman.  I sniffed the paper.  A hint of something.  I know that scent, what is it?  God, that’s Wind Song!  That’s what Mom used to wear when I was little.  Sometimes she’d dab a little behind my ears.

For a split second, I thought this might be from Mom.  Maybe she regretted running off with that jerk.  No, it wasn’t her handwriting.

 

“Jennifer!  I’m home.  Where are you?”  My dad had come in the front door.

“In my room, Dad!  Be right down!”

Oh my God, the letter.  What the heck should I do with it?  Dad will have a fit if he finds out I’ve been reading his personal mail.  I panicked and slipped it under the mattress on my bed.  I bounded down the stairs and gave my dad a big hug.  

“Where were you?”

“Your Uncle Bob had a car problem, and called to ask me to help him out.  Sorry not to leave a note, but I left in a hurry because he sounded so desperate.”

“You have a cell phone, Dad.  You should have texted me.”

“Yeah, sorry.  I actually thought about texting you, but I was driving at the time.  Then, when I caught up with Bob, I guess it just slipped my mind.  You know I’m a Luddite when it comes to cell phones.”

“You are.  You refuse to get a smart phone.  I’m surprised that your old flip phone still works.”

“Hey, I use it the way a phone is supposed to be used.  It works fine to talk to people.  Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t let you know where I was.”

“Is everything O.K. with Uncle Bob?” I asked as I followed my dad into the kitchen.

“It will be.  We hoped it was just a dead battery, but the guy from Triple A tried jumping it and couldn’t get it started.  So they towed it to a garage where we proceeded to sit for a couple hours only to be told they needed a part.  He won’t find out until tomorrow how long it will be until it’s repaired.”

My dad glanced at the pile of mail on the table, but didn’t say anything about the missing letter.

“So what’s for dinner?” I asked.

“I didn’t have time to pull anything out of the freezer.  How about I boil some pasta and open up a jar of sauce?”

“Sure, I’ll make a salad.”

“No, you go up and do your homework.  I’ve got dinner under control.  Everything will be ready in half an hour.”

He picked up the pile of mail and riffled through it before laying it back on the table.

“Now, scoot!  I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”  He started filling a pot with water.

The Letter - Chapter 3

I heard the water start to boil and pulled the jar full of assorted tea bags from the shelf above the kitchen table.  Earl Grey seems somehow appropriate, I thought as I poured the hot water into the mug containing the tea bag.  When the tea was ready, I added sugar and a dollop of milk.  I sat down at the kitchen table and picked up the letter.

Dear George,

You may be surprised to be hearing from me after all these years.  In fact, you may be surprised to be hearing from me at all.  Though we graduated from high school together, I don’t believe we ever spoke more than a word or two with one another the entire time we were there.  We were only in one class together our sophomore year - English with Mr. Bennett.  So you are probably wondering why I decided to write this letter to you now.

The phone rang.  I considered ignoring it, as I walked over to check the number on the caller I.D.  It was my brother.  I waited for the answering machine to pick up the call.

“George.  I hope you‘re there.  Please pick up.  I’ve got sort of an emergency . . ..”

“Hello,” I said picking up the receiver.  “Bob, what’s up?”

“George, hello.  Thanks for picking up.  Hey, my car conked out.  I’m out here on Route 88.  I called triple A, but they told me it’s likely to be two hours before they can get a tow truck out to me.  They said they’d give me, like, a fifteen minute warning before the tow truck gets here.  Is there any way, you could come out and get me?  Maybe we can go someplace to get a coffee while I’m waiting.  It’s cold as hell out here, and you can’t be more than twenty minutes or so from where I’m stranded.  What do you say, brother?  Can you help me out?”

I hesitated for a second, but knew I had no choice.  “Sure, Bob.  I’ll be right there.  Now where exactly are you?”

“Out on 88.  I’m about a mile from that little shopping center where there’s a coffee shop.  Uh, what’s the name of the place?  It’s not a Starbucks.  It’s an independent.” 

“The Mug and Kettle?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“As I recall, they have great coffee and they make their own pastries.  Soup too.  You’re a mile on what side of the shopping center?” I asked.

“Towards your place.  You sure I’m not interrupting anything?”

“No.  Nothing important.”

“George, I really appreciate this.”

“Not a  problem, Bob.  See you soon.”  

I grabbed my coat and hat but had some trouble finding my keys.  I raced from room to room searching until I spotted them on the floor beneath the front table.  They must have fallen when I tossed them there last evening.  I picked up the keys and noticed that the book I’d been reading was on the coffee table.  I grabbed it and headed out the door.  This could be a long wait. 

The Letter - Chapter 2

I poured boiling water into my favorite porcelain cup – the one with the violets.  A dark brown color emanated from the tea strainer and began to diffuse throughout the clear, hot liquid.  Steam rose, and I inhaled the distinctive aroma of bergamot.  God, I love that scent!  Why don’t I brew Earl Grey more often?  It seemed particularly fitting on this day as I watched a bone chilling rain fall outside my kitchen window.

The doorbell rang. I clutched my bulky cardigan closer as I walked from the kitchen toward the front door.  I felt a twinge of something – regret, perhaps – as I walked past my desk and saw my red pen sitting on top of the packet of lavender stationery.  I looked out the window at the top of my front door to see who had disturbed my solitude.

“Beverly!” I exclaimed, opening the door.  My neighbor and dearest friend.  I would have been annoyed if just about anyone else in the world had been standing on my front porch at that moment.  But not her.  Beverly handed me a small box and turned around to give her umbrella a few good flaps before setting it on the porch floor to dry. 

“What brings you out on a day like this?” I said.  “Please come in.  I was just about to have a cup of tea.  May I make one for you?  And what’s in this box?”

“Lady locks.  A treat to lift your spirits.  And mine too,” Beverly chuckled.  “I bought two of them and hoped you might share one with your favorite neighbor.”

“You hoped I might share one with Mrs. Mulligan?” I teased.  We both laughed.  Mrs. Mulligan is the crabbiest woman in our neighborhood. 

“But seriously,” Beverly continued, “I noticed that you seemed really down . . .and a little distracted when I saw you at the grocery.  Is it Jim?”  Beverly followed me into the kitchen.  “Is that Earl Grey?  I’d love a cup of that.”

I removed the tea strainer from my cup, shook out the spent leaves, rinsed it and refilled it with fresh tea leaves from my purple, tin canister.  I pulled a tea cup from the shelf and put the tea strainer in.  The water in the kettle was still hot.  I sighed as I poured it in.

“No, it’s not Jim,” I said, reflecting on my late husband. 

“Are you sure?  I still get depressed when I think of Jerry, and it’s been ten years since he passed.  You may recall that Jerry retired early so we could enjoy our so-called golden years together.  Two months later, the bastard died on me.  Fifty-eight years old.  I’m never sure whether to be sad or angry when I think of him.  And for you, it’s been what, two years?”

“Nearly two.  No, it makes me sad when I think about it, but I was upset when you saw me at the store because I was thinking about something I did that was so incredibly stupid.”

“Ellie, honey, you are one of the brightest, most level-headed women I’ve ever met.  What could you have done that was so bad?”  Beverly lowered her voice to a whisper.  “Are you having an affair?”

I burst out laughing.  “Beverly, you slay me.  An affair?  I should be so lucky at my age.”

“Your age?”  You’re what – late fifties or early sixties?  You’re a spring chicken.  You’re still young enough to sow some wild oats.  Jim wouldn’t mind.  Those vows were ‘till death do us part.’  He’s dead – game over.  I’m sixty-eight, and I wouldn’t turn away opportunity if he came knocking at my door.  That’s what I say.”

“I say, sit down.  Your tea is ready, and I can’t wait any longer to bite into one of those lady locks.  And then I’ll tell you about the letter I wrote that was probably a huge mistake,” I said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

 

“OK, give me a lady lock, lady,” Beverly grinned and sat down across from me.  “I am all ears.”

The Janus Post

Janus is the Roman God of transitions.  He is usually depicted as having two faces – one looking forward and one looking backward.  The month of January is usually considered as having been named for Janus as we transition from the old year to the new.  Invoking Janus gives us an opportunity to reflect on the year just ended and consider what the New Year may hold for us.  So let’s take a look backward and then consider the year to come.

2016

1. General:  This was my fourth full year as a retiree.  A friend who is about my age and still working told me he didn’t want to retire because he is afraid he’ll be bored.  I told him there hasn’t been a day – even an hour – when I’ve been bored since I retired.  Maybe that’s because I never felt retirement was an end, but rather a new beginning. In other words, I was just changing jobs.  And my new job got really busy in 2016.
2. Family Transitions:  More than any year since I retired, 2016 was a year of many transitions for our family.  My wife and I had always thought about moving east at some point when we were both retired.  Our daughter lives in West Chester, PA and our oldest son lives in New York City, so we’ve felt a definite pull eastward.  But where would that take us?  Our daughter started sending us information about homes near hers in January and claimed to have found the perfect home for us by early February.  We haven’t always agreed with our daughter, but when we drove out to see the house, we had to agree it was just right for us.  But even after we bought it, we weren’t sure when we would move into it.   My wife didn’t think she was ready to retire from teaching, so we considered renting it out for a year or two until we were ready for a major move.  But when our daughter told us she was expecting, that changed everything.  My wife now couldn’t wait to retire, and we started moving our stuff into the new house.  By the time our grandson, Haven Joseph, was born in late October, we were about 80% moved in.  To help ease the transition, our youngest son moved back into our house in Pittsburgh.  That will allow us to more slowly pull up roots from the home we’ve occupied for the past 33 years.  If a new home, new retirement, new grandson and a son moving back in with us weren’t enough transition, our oldest son got married in 2016.  Their July wedding in Pittsburgh turned out to be perfect.  So we were blessed with the addition of a new daughter-in-law and a grandson as our family expanded by two during the year. 
3. Volunteer Transitions:  When I “changed jobs” 4½ years ago, I liked to joke that I was working just as hard, but getting paid a lot less, i.e., nothing.  Such is the nature of being a volunteer.  My second, 3-year term on the PICT Classic Theatre Board of Directors ended in 2016.  While I love what PICT does and enjoyed working with its staff and my fellow Board members, I felt it was time to step down after 6 years.  Our planned move to West Chester gave me a good excuse to not seek a third term on the Board.  The end of 2016 also marked the end of my 8-year service on the Board of Trustees of the Episcopal Diocese of Pittsburgh.  I served as the Trustee’s President for the past three years.  While it sometimes felt like a full-time job, working with Bishop McConnell, Diocesan staff and the other Board members was extremely rewarding and an experience I will miss.  For three school years, I volunteered for the Everybody Wins program at Phillips Elementary School on Pittsburgh’s Southside.  EW encourages literacy by attempting to instill a love of reading in 2^nd and 3^rd graders who are paired with adult volunteer Reading Buddies.  I enjoyed reading with Dylan and Julian and hope our time together opened a gateway to a lifetime of pleasure through reading and I will miss volunteering in that program.  As a volunteer at Linden Elementary School where my wife taught, I coached a team of 4^th and 5^th graders who participated in Book Battle, where kids competed for prizes by answering questions about books they read together.  I also assisted as a moderator for the school’s Spelling Bee.   Finally, at my church, I continued serving as a Lay Eucharistic Minister, as the mentor for the church’s acolyte program, as the instructor for confirmation class, and as editor of the church’s newsletter where I contributed articles for each issue.
4. Writing Transitions:  Besides writing for our church’s newsletter, I wrote a poem for our church’s observance of Patriot Day.  Our priest also commissioned me to write an updated version of The Nicene Creed that contained language more accessible to the children and youth of our parish.  It was reviewed and approved by our Bishop, so I don’t have to feel guilty of blasphemy for rewriting such a significant, historic document.  I was disappointed that I only wrote five posts for my blog, but I started several longer projects that show promise as works I may eventually try to publish.  I also joined a small group of local writers (South Hills Creative Writing Group) that meet weekly at the local branch of the library.  I credit that group with being patient enough to review and comment on what I am writing and encouraging me to continue pursuing this craft.  Reading is a key part of writing and even with so much going on in 2016, I was able to find the time to read 25 books.

2017

1. Family Transitions:  I look forward to completing our move to West Chester this year.  Our grandson’s baptism is being planned for April 15, and we hope our move will be pretty much completed by then.  After that, we still expect to travel to Pittsburgh to see our son and other friends and family, but anticipate that our time in Pittsburgh will continue to decrease through the rest of the year. 
2. Volunteer Transition:  Over the next few months, I plan to hand off my remaining volunteer activities at our church in Pittsburgh.  As I transition to West Chester, I plan to be very selective about taking on new volunteer commitments.  In fact, I would like to make 2017 a year in which I bide my time in terms of considering any new volunteer opportunities that come my way.  If I am active in volunteering for anything, it will likely be to resist the changes in policy anticipated from the new administration in Washington.  I am particularly concerned about efforts to undermine progress in fighting climate change, and will look hard at possible volunteer opportunities in this area.
3. Writing Transition:   With fewer volunteer commitments, I am hopeful that I can finally devote a great deal of my time to writing.  This was the reason I retired early, though I’ve often felt that the years since I retired were too full of distractions that prevented me from writing.  But to be honest, I have written a great deal more over these past few years than I certainly would have written if I’d continued working.  But my hope for 2017 is to inventory what I’ve written so far and make efforts to publish some of it.  In terms of new writing, I hope to be active in both storytelling as well as writing to change the world for the better.                                

So there’s a look at where I’ve been in 2016 and where I hope I’m going in this New Year.  I hope Janus and all the other gods will continue to look on me with favor in this and future years.

The Letter

It was the third of January when I received the letter.  I remember vividly that it arrived in a purple envelope.  No, I guess one would better describe its color as lavender.  It was addressed to me.  The address was written in red ink in a delicate cursive, slanted precisely the way our second grade teacher had taught us.  There was no return address on the envelope to give me a hint as to the sender’s identity.  The postmark was smeared.  I did not recognize the name of the city.  The state looked to be CA, GA or possibly LA.  Maybe the zip code could narrow it down if I went online to look it up.

I was curious.  I don’t often get personal letters, if indeed that is what this was.  Most of what I pull from my mailbox comes addressed to “occupant” or “resident” or is clearly a bill, an advertisement or a solicitation from some charity.  Who even sends personal letters anymore by mail?  My curiosity dimmed several degrees.  It occurred to me that this was probably just a trick.  Some business or charity probably sent it and attempted to disguise it to look like a personal letter.  I’d gotten a few pieces of mail like this before and had felt foolish when I opened them with high expectations only to have my hopes dashed when I saw what was inside. 

I considered tossing the envelope unopened into the recycle bin with the morning’s newspaper.  How does that saying go?  Fool me once, something, something?  Oh what the hell.  Just open it.  So what if it’s just an ad or a request for money from some political group.  Just don‘t get your hopes up, that’s all.

I slid my letter opener under the flap of the envelope and made a slit to reveal the contents.  Hmm, lavender stationery.  I opened the paper.  There were three pages written in the same longhand with the same red ink as the address on the envelope.  I read the first line.

“You may be surprised to be hearing from me after all these years.”  I flipped to the last page.

“Fondly,” and no signature.  Think of that – no signature.  I stared out the kitchen window for a moment.  Then I laid the letter on the kitchen table and filled the electric kettle with water to make myself a cup of tea.

Down the Tubes

The summer of 2016 was quite busy.  My wife retired, my oldest son got married, my daughter became pregnant, and my youngest son moved back home.  In addition, my wife and I took some early steps toward moving from our home of 33 years in Pittsburgh across the state to West Chester which is the hometown of our daughter, son-in-law and future grandchild.  With all that going on, there wasn’t much time for rest and relaxation.  So when our 25-year old son invited my wife and me to go “tubing,” I thought it would be a great way to spend a summer day.

Tubing involves floating down a river while sitting in a big inner tube.  It’s kind of like the Lazy River ride in some water parks except you’re in a real river or creek and copious amounts of beer are involved.  My son-in-law, an experienced tuber, had taken my son and me tubing a few years back on the Brandywine near West Chester.  We had had a great time floating on our tubes, drinking beer, listening to music and taking an occasional dip into the cool water. 

Consequently, my son decided to invest in some tubes and found a stretch of Loyalhanna Creek that worked pretty well for tubing.  He had taken several tubing expeditions on the Loyalhanna with friends before offering to take my wife and me.  This would be a first for my wife and only my second tubing experience.  We got a later start than we had hoped due to some commitments we had that morning.  As the day moved toward mid-afternoon, we hurried out of the house to be sure we’d have enough time to enjoy a 3-hour float on the river.  As a result, I forgot my water shoes, which was the first mistake I made that day.  These streams are usually pretty rocky, so foot protection of some type is essential. Fortunately, my son remembered to bring his water shoes, so he offered his flip-flops to me. 

My swimming trunks didn’t have pockets, so I took along an old fanny pack to hold my wallet, phone and other essentials.  Tubing requires two cars – one upstream where you get into the river and one downstream where you get out.  I drove my car to the downstream point, parked it, locked it, grabbed the fanny pack and climbed into my son’s truck.  He drove a few miles upstream where we inflated the tubes and carried them down to the river.  Before my son locked up the truck, I carefully placed the fanny pack with my valuables under the front seat so would-be thieves would not be able to see it. 

My son tied our three tubes together along with the smaller tube that carried our snacks, our music, and most importantly, the cooler filled with beer.  We put the tubes into the creek and began our journey downstream.  The creek was a bit low that day.  There were several stretches, particularly at the beginning, where the tubes got hung up on the creek bed, and we had to get out and walk.  During these stretches, I was grateful for the flip-flops because the stream bed was quite rocky.  When the creek got a little deeper, we climbed back into our inner tubes.  It is surprising how little water is necessary to allow the tube to float, though you have to be ready to lift your behind when the lead tuber yells, “Bottoms up!”

Once we got to a point where we were floating pretty freely, my son put on some music, we cracked open some beers and opened up some of the snacks we had brought.  The sun was shining, the water was cool and we were having a wonderful time laughing, chatting and enjoying the day.  The stretch of stream we were on was fairly isolated.  We saw no homes, businesses or even farms.  Trees and the surrounding woods lined both sides of the creek.  We saw some blue herons, deer and other wildlife as we traveled lazily downstream enjoying the sunshine, the blue skies and the beauty of nature.

When we had gotten to about the halfway point, my wife asked an innocent question.  “So what happens when we get to the car? Do we try to pack up everything or do we first drive to get the truck?”

I suddenly sat up straight in my tube as the realization of my second mistake hit me like a ton of bricks. “Oh, no!”  I had placed the keys to the downstream car into the fanny pack which I had so carefully hidden under the front seat of the upstream truck.

My son started laughing. 

“Are you serious?” my wife wanted to know.  I admitted that I was and started apologizing profusely.

We decided to beach the tubes while we figured out what to do next.  My wife suggested that we start walking back upstream.  If we followed the stream, we had to eventually make it back to the truck. 

My son stared at his smart phone for a few minutes and proposed an alternative plan. According to the map on his smart phone, there was a road just beyond the woods.  He proposed that he would make his way through the woods to this road while my wife and I continued floating downstream to the car.  Once he got to the road, he would walk back to the truck using the phone map, and then he would drive to the downstream car where he would meet us. 

My wife saw some major flaws with this plan.  First, she felt that separating would be a big mistake.  Second, neither she nor I had a cell phone so we had no way to stay in communication with my son.  Third, she pointed out that my son’s phone could run out of battery charge. Fourth, we couldn’t be sure cell service would be available in the middle of these woods.  Fifth, the phone’s map gave no indication of the terrain between the stream and the road.  Finally, my wife and I really had no idea whether we would be able to see the downstream car from the creek to know where we should get out.  She pointed out that my son was the only one of us who had done this before.

Logic and good sense dictated that I should agree with my wife and immediately start walking upstream. But sometimes I think there must be a “stupid gene” on the Y chromosome that activates at the worst possible time.  So of course I sided with my 25-year old son and his smart phone.

A huge argument ensued with the three of us shouting at each other in the middle of the woods.  Despite feeling strongly that her plan was our best bet, my wife reluctantly agreed to go along with my son’s proposal as long as we stayed together.   So the three of us walked across the shallow stream toward the woods.

As we stepped out of the creek, our feet sank up to our ankles in mud.  That should have been reason enough to make us reconsider.  Instead, we pulled our feet and shoes out of the soft, thick mud and slowly made our way up the bank of the creek. As we entered the woods, we saw there were no pathways, which forced us to forge a trail through briars and thick underbrush. At times we heard what sounded like road traffic, but after twenty minutes of getting scratched by thorns and bitten by mosquitoes, we seemed no closer to a road than when we had exited the stream.  At that point I fully realized my third mistake – not listening to my wife.  Coming to my senses, I turned our expedition around, now fully prepared to do what my wife had suggested in the first place. 

We slowly trudged back to the creek, the brambles and briars biting into the exposed flesh of our arms and legs.  When we arrived at the stream bank, we saw that we had traveled only about 100 yards upstream from our beached inner tubes during the half hour we spent wandering aimlessly through the woods.  Unfortunately, we had to abandon what little progress we had made in order to retrieve the tubes.  By now, the sun was sinking low in the sky.  Soon it would be dark.  With the tubes in tow, we began the long, slow walk upstream.  Now I was really regretting having forgotten my water shoes because the flip-flops were slowly cutting into the flesh between my toes as I made my way through the water. 

It took us more than an hour to get back to the truck.  We arrived just as dusk was starting to fall.  We hurried to load everything into the truck before it was completely dark.  Then the GPS in my son’s smart phone directed us in a convoluted way back to our downstream car.  What should have been a 10-minute ride turned into a half hour tour of the area’s country roads.  It was pitch dark when we arrived at the second car and headed back to Pittsburgh.  When we got close to home, we ran into a massive traffic jam because of construction in the Squirrel Hill Tunnels.  It was close to 11:00 PM when we pulled into our driveway.

My wife called my son-in-law to get his experienced opinion on what we should have done when we realized we didn’t have a key to the downstream car.  Without missing a beat, he said, “Walk back up the stream. That’s the only thing you know for sure.”  When she mentioned my son’s smart phone, he said, “One smart phone; two dumb men.”  Not content to leave it at that, he threw one final zinger.  “If at first you don’t succeed, do what your mother (or wife) told you to do in the first place.”

If he hadn’t been so right, I would have vowed to get him for that.  Somehow he had overcome the effects of that masculine stupid gene – at least for that day.  Maybe it comes from being raised in a home with only sisters. 

As we unpacked the truck I asked my son, “When do you think we can try this again?”  I was, after all, raised in a home with only brothers.

A Chip Off the Old Block

A feeling of overwhelming sadness engulfed Frank. 

“All the great stories already have been written,” he lamented to no one in particular.  He closed the book he had been reading and stood up.  “And the best ones have been re-written over and over with an infinite number of variations.  Romeo and Juliet are transformed into Maria and Tony.  Boy meets girl, etcetera, etcetera,” Frank continued with a heavy sigh.

He headed back to the main road, walking past the monuments and tombstones.  The cemetery was one of Frank’s favorite places to walk and think.

“Why must the protagonist always start out young and full of promise?” he mused.  Even if they spring forth old and mean, they soon flashback to young and promising like Ebenezer Scrooge in Dicken’s A Christmas Carol.  And old and crotchety is somehow always redeemed by the final page.”

                                                            *          *          *

He stared at the light forcing its way into his bedroom around the room darkening shades.

“I may as well get up,” he grumbled.  “Another goddam sleepless night in an endless series of sleepless nights.  What did I ever do to deserve this?”

He picked up the tumbler containing a quarter inch of tea-stained liquid from his nightstand.   He sniffed the residue of melted ice.  Even a glassful of whiskey had not been enough to deliver an hour or two of blissful unconsciousness.  He painfully negotiated the stairs down to the kitchen and placed the glass onto the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. 

                                                            *          *          *

“And he made everyone miserable with his presence, and then he died, leaving a mountain of bills for his unfortunate heirs.  Now why doesn’t anyone write a story like that?” Frank wondered aloud as he turned onto the main road.  It had been days since he’d written anything.

Now let’s see . . ., how about a story about a writer struggling to find a story?  Now that’s never been done before.  A wry smile spread across Frank’s face.  He began to walk a little faster as his bladder signaled the two-minute warning.  I shouldn’t have had that cup of tea before going for a walk.  He struggled to think of something else, knowing he still had a good ten minutes of walking before there could be any relief.

Who wrote the First Story? Frank pondered.  What would it have been about?  Perhaps it involved The Hunt.  He thought of the ancient paintings in those caves in southern France.  Every picture tells a story, don’t it?  The Rod Stewart song danced around in Frank’s head.  He felt his bladder relax; the urgency lessened.

Are words even necessary?  In the Beginning was the Word.  And what is the Word?  Everybody knows the Bird is the Word!  

“Noooo!” Frank shouted out loud.  He grabbed his head, trying to prevent the earworm from nesting in his brain. 

“Think Biblical,” Frank said to himself.  And the Word was good.  It was very good, and it was fruitful and multiplied.  Words became phrases, phrases became sentences, sentences became paragraphs, and paragraphs became chapters, short stories, novelettes, novellas and novels, each with a story to tell.  The stories could be fiction or non-fiction.  The stories might be written in prose or poetry, spoken in plays or sung in musicals, operettas or operas, containing words employed by the writer to describe some aspect of the human experience.

His thoughts stopped abruptly when Frank walked up the steps to his front porch, opened the storm door and inserted the key.  A quick twist and push and Frank was inside.  The urgency returned and he ran up the stairs to the bathroom.