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Kathie TouinShort stories by Gordon J Twa |
This page on Kathie's website features short stories written by her father Gordon Twa, a respected engineer, who, in retirement, has found a love of writing.
Gordon's short stories index
A Christmas Letter to Friends and Family
The Sound of Deviltry in the Night... or Things That Go Bump in the Night
Commemorative Air Force - Southern California Wing
Gordon also has a great love of aeroplanes and flying. He is often found helping out at the CAF Southern California Wing's aviation museum in Camarillo, California, USA. Here he is in February 2007 when Clay Lacy brought his Douglas DC-2 to the museum - one of only two examples that are still flying. The TWA logo on the plane is, of course, the airline and not Gordon's name but it's still neat...
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The river was the San Joaquin River and it was rising...
My uncle Hap owned a twenty-acre farm just outside of Manteca, a little town just south of Stockton, California. When I was born, my parents lived on the farm until I was four years old when we moved to Canada.
In the fall of 1951, I was in the air force and was sent to Camp Stoneman near San Francisco for shipment to the Far East. There was a mix up somewhere and my duffle bag was misplaced and I wound up spending the next three months at Camp Stoneman.
My uncle's farm was only about fifty miles from there. I would sneak away (actually I was AWOL) and hitch hike to Manteca. I usually only spent a day or two as I never knew when they would find my stuff and put me on a boat. My Uncle Hap, Aunt Mary, and their three kids became a second family to me.
In May of 1954, I arrived back at Camp Stoneman after two and half years in Japan and received my discharge from the USAF. I had no plans for my immediate future so I headed for the farm. I spent a couple weeks there while I found a job and a place to stay in Stockton.
The oldest girl, Nancy, had married and moved out leaving my cousins, Squeek, now sixteen, and Marti, a very cute little girl of ten. Those two weeks I spent there also coincided with the first crop of alfalfa hay being baled and ready to bring in. My uncle worked my butt off.
We had to load the hay bales onto a wagon, haul them into the barn and unload and stack them. Those bales weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds each. Over the next year and a half, it seemed that every time I visited my uncle, it was haying time.
In the fall of 1955, I moved to Los Angeles. That Christmas I decided to visit the farm. At least at that time of the year, I wouldn't have to worry about haying... I arrived three days before Christmas to a warm welcome. The next day I helped my aunt make a Christmas rum cake. The cake called for one cup of rum. We started with an almost full bottle but by the time it got to that part of the recipe, I had to go out and get another bottle. The cake was delicious.
The following morning, I was awakened by the phone ringing in the kitchen. I heard my uncle padding into the kitchen then his gruff voice, "Yeah." There was a long pause while he listened, then, "Okay, Jim, we'll be right there." His footsteps padded down the hall to our bedroom door.
He pounded on the partly open door and shouted, "Okay my boys, we have a little job. Get up and get dressed." I rolled out of my bunk and kicked Squeek's bunk until he groaned and woke up.
When we were dressed and in the kitchen, Hap explained: "Jim Luck has a hundred ton of hay in his barn and the river is getting close. We have to get it out before it gets wet."
Aunt Mary was bustling about the kitchen, moving between the two big black skillets on the stove and the counter where she was making a stack of baloney sandwiches and wrapping them in wax paper. The old percolator was perking away and the aroma of coffee mixed with frying bacon filled the kitchen. She put the sandwiches into a paper bag and filled two big Thermoses with coffee. We wolfed down a quick breakfast of bacon and scrambled eggs.
We drove the ten miles over to the Luck ranch but had to stop just before the gate into the place as the river had risen and the road into the ranch was under water. The barn and house were on a more elevated piece of ground and formed an island.
About that time a semi-truck with a long flatbed trailer pulled up. We jumped onto the trailer and he drove through the water leaving a wake like a boat behind. The water turned out to be only half way up to the axles. The driver maneuvered the trailer around and backed it into the barn. Bales of hay rose twenty feet high on either side of the trailer.
Jim Luck and two other men that I did not know where standing on a shelf of hay bales that were only a couple of feet higher than the bed of the truck. We jumped up to join them and were handed two wicked looking hay hooks. We organized ourselves with two men on the truck, two throwing bales onto the truck and the other two bringing bales down off the stacks.
It was just getting daylight when we arrived at the ranch and it was almost dark when the last truck pulled away. It seemed an endless donnybrook of heaving bales of hay. The jerk on the arms as the hay hooks caught a bale and the long unused muscles screaming in protest as you swung a bale up over your head onto the truck.
We wore red bandanas over our nose and mouth to minimize choking on the dust that filled the barn. It looked like a band of bandits scurrying around in the dim light of the barn. We wiped the sweat out of our eyes and cussed a blue streak when a bale would fall or split. Luckily no one was hurt although there were a few bruises.
When it seemed that I could not lift another bale, the truck was loaded and moving out. I collapsed on a bale leaning back against another bale, ignoring the pricking of the hay through the sweat soaked shirt. I was dying for a cigarette but knew that a single spark in this dust-laden air would blow all of us to hell.
Here came big burly Uncle Hap with a mug of coffee and a couple of sandwiches. He's grinning as if this is just child's play. Finally, all that is left is a few broken bales scattered over the floor. The last truck left with the water almost reaching the bed of the truck. The wheels were completely submerged.
Hap, Squeek and I rode out on the last load. Jim and the other two men were staying in the house. We dragged ourselves, groaning about sore muscles, into the service porch back at the farm.
Aunt Mary met us at the kitchen door holding a broom at an angle across her chest like an AK-47 assault rifle. "Don't you dare come in here with all that crud. Strip off and wash up out there on the service porch. I'll fetch you some clean clothes." Inside the kitchen, we were greeted by the aroma of a beef roast loaded with garlic and the smell of fresh biscuits.
The next day Jim Luck called and reported that the river crested with only about six inches of water in the barn and did not reach the house. He thanked us profusely. If the hay had still been in the barn, the water would have wicked up into the bales and would have ruined at least half of the hay. He said he would bring over a good bottle of scotch for Christmas.
So much for dodging the haying season.
Gordon J Twa
Edited by Bettie and Marjorie
Zeus snored in the hammock. Under the hammock, a can of Coors beer lay on its side next to a bag of salt and vinegar chips.
Mnemosyne stormed out of the French doors to the patio. "Damn it. Zeus, you lazy bastard, you have got to do something about our daughters. All they have done for the last three thousand years is sit around and bicker about who is the most important. They seem to forget that they are supposed to be inspiring the new writers and scientists that keep popping out of these fornicating humans."
When there was no response, she grabbed the side of the hammock and upset Zeus on to the ground. Zeus sat up slowly and rubbed the side of his head where it had landed on the beer can. "Okay, woman, don't get you knickers in a twist. Go get me another beer and I'll ponder some on this most critical problem." To himself, he muttered: "What the hell do you expect when you coddle these spoiled brats."
Mnemosyne deliberately stepped on the bag of chips and said: "Go get your own bloody beer. Clio is in a real snit because Urania is claiming that astronomy is much more important than her history. She said that she is going to smear goose shit all over Urania's telescope."
The low ranch style bungalow on the top of Mount Olympus was obscured from below by the perpetual clouds that stretched out endlessly. These also hid the goings on of the humans below. Dionysus, the god of wine and festivities kept them well informed since he was always where the parties were and the drunken humans told him all their secrets. Between him and Ares, the god of war, who found a kindred spirit in the current president of the USA, Zeus and his family were kept well informed.
Zeus reappeared with a fresh can of Bud Light and grimaced as he took a long swig. Damn, why can't we get some decent English beer up here? He thought of Apollo who drove the chariot of the sun across the sky every day. Why couldn't he just make a short stop in the UK and pick up a keg of Guinness and a keg of Newcastle? He is just too full of himself with that bloody sun.
He picked up the crushed bag of chips and shook out a hand full of crumbs. Crazy woman! He walked through the pillared archway to the pool. They had kept the original Roman style, or was it Greek style, he couldn't remember. That crook of a pool contractor dug the hole over on the other side of the house then never returned.
His nine daughters, Clio, Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Thalia, Terpsichore and Urania, were stretched out on lounges around the pool. They seemed to be competing to see who could wear the least amount of apparel. He walked over and sat at a white plastic table in the shade of an umbrella that said Pizza Hut all around the edges.
Calliope and Erato were deep in an augment over the merits of epic poetry over love poetry. Erato claimed love poetry affected far more people than that silly epic poetry which was only read by high brow Republicans. Melpomene, the Muse of tragedy, piped up and said there was no such thing as a high brow Republican. Erato threw the remains of a sloe gin fizz at Melpomene. This started a melee.
Polyhymnia, the Muse of song rhetoric and geometry, was sitting on a lounge at the edge of the pool eating a big bowl of pistachio ice cream. She dipped out a large blob and, using her spoon as a catapult, launched it at Thalia, the Muse of comedy, who was laying face down on her lounge, her tanned buttocks a too tempting target. The great green glob struck in the tanned crease where the string would have been had she been wearing one. Thalia leaped off the lounge and screamed, "You little shit." And pushed Polyhymnia over backwards into the pool.
Terpsichore, the Muse of dancing, sprang up and went into a pirouette, laughing and pointing at the green slime slithering down Thalia's slender leg. Thalia grabbed the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket beside Erato and shook it hard and let fly with a stream that struck Terpsichore full in the face.
Everyone was now one their feet, except, of course, for Polyhymnia who was in the pool. There was much screaming of very unladylike words and a swirling mass of tanned bodies, upsetting tables and lounges and then splashes as bodies hit the water.
Zeus stood up, knocking over the table and umbrella. He reached into the sky and brought down a thunderbolt, It sizzled and hissed in his hand. The pulsating blue light made the sunlight seem pale. He slammed it down onto the polished pink marble tile. There was a thunderous boom followed by absolute silence.
"Okay, girls, listen up." His voice sounded like thunder. The seven girls in the pool and the two that were sitting on the tile looked up with eyes wide. This was the first time in a couple thousand years that they had seen their father so angry.
"Now. I want no more of this nonsense. Your duty is to your struggling writers, artists and scientists. I want no more of this bickering. If I hear any more of this, I am going to send each and everyone of you to different Senior Centers where you will be forced to listen to the drivel written by the people you have failed to help because you were so busy trying to impress each other."
Zeus slouched back into the house for another beer.
Gordon J Twa
The three 14-year-old boys rode their bikes rapidly across the old iron truss bridge over the Shuswap river. The bikes rattled and shook across the worn timber decking of the bridge. They headed east on the gravel road. The gravel was hard packed but in places, due to the traffic, had developed into a washboard surface that made uncomfortable riding.
On the back of each boy was a Canadian Army field pack. Around each waist was a web belt with a canteen, in its canvas cover. All of this from the new Army and Navy Surplus store that had opened six month ago in Vernon. The year was 1948 and military surplus was available at fantastically low prices.
In the lead, was Mac (aka Howard). In his pack was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, a small Thermos bottle with a tin cap full of hot tea, and three sticks of dynamite.
Next was Candy (aka Kenneth). In his pack was a cheese sandwich of good hard Armstrong yellow cheese between thick sliced home-made bread, an apple, a small Thermos of chocolate milk, and three detonator caps for the dynamite.
Trailing was Walt (aka Walter). In his pack was sandwich of thick sliced ham between thick dark bread, a bunch of cherries, a Thermos of coffee, a coil of white slow burn dynamite fuse, a 50-foot coil of quarter-inch rope, and half-a-dozen cedar shingles. Tied to the outside of his pack was a coil of chicken wire that was about two feet high and 40 feet long.
They had ridden about a mile when around the bend in the road ahead roared a logging truck with a full load. The boys stopped their bikes and moved over onto the grass verge and turned their backs to the road. As the truck passed, they were enveloped in a heavy brown cloud of dust. Mac started coughing and pulled out his canteen to wash the dust out. Candy shook his fist at the retreating truck and made disparaging remarks about the truck driver's ancestry. Walt pulled out a large red bandana and wiped the dust from his face and agreed whole heartedly with Candy.
They continued on for a couple more miles until they came to a place where the road dipped down within about 50 feet of the river. Below, there was a pool formed in the river that was about 60 feet across. At the down river end of the pool, the river narrowed until it was not more than about 20 or 30 feet across. Rapids formed as the river rushed out of the pool and foamed over and around large rocks. It was difficult to tell the depth of the pool but it didn't appear to be very deep.
Many fish swirled in the pool in flashes of silver and red. "Look at all the bloody Kikininies," Candy exclaimed in an awed tone. "Didn't I tell you," Mac said with a superior air, "this is the best spot on the river."
"So these Kikininies are a land-locked salmon that have come up the river to spawn, eh," Walt said to confirm what Mac had told him earlier. "Yep," Mac replied, "and they are worth two bit a dozen in town."
They pulled their bikes off the road and laid them under a spreading cedar tree. They sat on a large rock at the edge of the pool and slid out of their packs.
"Ok, mon General," Walt said, turning to Mac, "what's the plan of attack?" "Well, my faithful followers," Mac said standing on the top of the rock, "the idea is to get the dynamite to go off right in the middle of the pool and you two will catch the stunned fish with the chicken-wire stretched across the end of the pool. Simple, eh?"
"Sounds fine. But how are you going to get the stuff to go off exactly in the middle of the pool?" Candy asked. Mac tapped the side of his head: "That is why you have me as a great leader. What we will do is, float a piece of shingle down from the upper end of the pool and figure out how long it takes. Then put the right amount of fuse on the dynamite." "Ok, let's get with it," Walt said opening his pack and pulling out a couple shingles and the coil of fuse. He split a small piece off of one with his jack-knife and handed it to Mac.
Mac move around to the head of the pool and dropped the piece into the river. He counted "one-thousand one, one-thousand two..." as the piece of shingle floated into the pool. He was at "one-thousand twenty" when it reached the middle of the pool.
"Ok," Mac said, "that fuse burns about one foot a minute. So we will need about four inches. Candy hand me the fuse." Mac cut off just a little over four inches. At least what he thought was four inches by laying it across his palm as a ruler. Using his knife he made a small cut into the fuse end and spread it open so that it would be easy to light. Walt handed him another piece of shingle. Mac lighted the fuse with a wooden kitchen match and set the fuse on the piece of shingle and started it floating into the pool.
They all ran along the edge watching the fuse. The shingle was about five feet short of the center of the pool when they saw the spurt of flame come from the end of the fuse. "Ok, that was pretty close. I'll add another quarter inch and we'll do it. You guys get the chicken wire in place and I'll get the dynamite ready," Mac said.
Candy jumped from rock to rock and got to the other side. Walt threw the rope to him and tied the other end of the rope to one end of the chicken wire. Candy pulled it across and they held it up so as to catch anything floating out of the pool.
"Ok, Mac," Walt hollered, "Let 'er rip." A couple minutes of silence, then Mac called out: "Fire in the hole."
The next 20 seconds seemed like an eternity. Then there was a tremendous BOOM. It looked like all of the water in the pool rose into the air.
Along with the water were rocks, sand, gravel and pieces of fish. Walt and Candy threw their arms over their heads to try to deflect the fall out. Luckily none of the larger rocks hit them but they were pelted with small stones and fish, a few whole ones, but mostly pieces of fish.
"God damn it, I got fish guts in my hair," wailed Candy, furiously pulling at his hair. They had let go of the chicken wire and it had disappeared down stream. Candy joined Walt on his side and they went looking for Mac.
They found him sitting dazed at the head of the pool. "Christ, Mac, how much poof powder did you use?" Walt asked. Mac looked up with a pale face: "Just one stick is all." "You dumb shit Mac, all you needed was not more than a quarter stick at the most," Walt said in disgust.
And so ended the great Kikinini caper.
Gordon J Twa
Now thoughts of bathtubs usually gin up images that may not be appropriate for young or impressionable readers. I can assure you that this is not one of those cases. This is serious.
The bathtub in question is one of those old white, cast iron, claw footed tubs. It was in the upstairs bathroom of an old frame house at 137 River Road. In the spring of '48, the river rose to where it undercut the bank below this house and the house was condemned. There was a definite list to the old house and it was expected to fall into the river at any time.
Naturally, an abandoned house is a challenge that is irresistible to young boys. The house was boarded up by the town authorities but that only added to the challenge. George Tindal, age 14, and James T Baker, know by all as JT, age thirteen and a half, decided to accept the challenge. The two boys were next door neighbours and best friends.
JT, although younger than George, was almost six inches taller. He was a long lanky kid with a carrot top of curly hair and freckles all over. George on the other hand was broad at the shoulder and slim hipped with blond hair and green eyes that always seemed to be laughing.
When the river receded after cutting away the bank, it left sort of a cave under the house that extended in about 12 feet and exposed the wall of the root cellar. The wooden sides were rotted from contact with the ground for a half century and gave way with only a little persuasion to the hatchets of the enterprising youth. When the old wood was attacked, it retaliated by almost burying the two boys in an avalanche of soggy saw-dust that had been used to preserve vegetables.
The boys cleared away the sawdust, dumping most of it into the river and used the old planks to make a crude door that hid the entrance. Each boy was equipped with a military style angle head flashlight purchased at Levy's Surplus Store. A careful examination of the steps leading up to the first floor showed that they would have to construct some sort of ladder as the steps were totally consumed by termites.
The summer was just starting so they had plenty of time. They had, on previous investigation, found a supply of old boards in a shed in back of the house. JT supplied the nails, hammer and saw. They had to wait until after dark to smuggle the materials and backpack of canned pop and snacks into the house.
At this time of the year it didn't get dark until almost ten which added to the challenge. They were supposed to be in bed by ten. A couple of years before they had rigged a crude intercom system between the houses. The system was about the simplest they could come up with, consisting of two four-inch speakers, salvaged from junked radios, connected by a piece of lamp cord, well, actually, several pieces spliced together. They worked fine with no need for batteries or switches.
They were thankful that they lived in single storey houses and did not, like Tom Sawyer, have to shinny down a rain gutter or tree. Once they determined that the old folks were engrossed in the ten o'clock news, they were out their windows and on the way.
The first night, after hurriedly building a ladder, was spent exploring the house. There was little left in the house. Previous scavengers had stripped it of cabinets, the kitchen sink and anything that might be useful. The only thing they found was upstairs in the bathroom. The old bathtub. Someone had removed the faucets and cut off the plumbing. The tub was pulled away from the wall as if they had tried to take it but it was just too heavy.
Now, what can we do with a bathtub? That was the question in their young minds. "Remember that old poem about three men in a tub? Suppose we make a boat out of it," suggested George. "That thing is so heavy, it would sink, wouldn't it?" JT said. "Well, battleships are made of steel aren't they? Could you ask your dad. He should know cuz he's an engineer." "Ok, I'll ask him but I've got to be careful. He would wonder why I want to know if a bathtub will float."
That evening James T Baker Senior sat watching the evening news and was muttering under his breath about the incredible idiocy of paying millions to a scruffy looking ball player that the sports announcer was interviewing when JT tapped him on the arm. "Dad, can I ask you a question?"
The father set his drink down and hooked his arm around his son's waist and pulled him roughly over the arm of the chair and into his lap. JT was happy to feel the scrape of his father's day old beard on his cheek and the hard muscles of the arms that crushed him in a great hug. He sat back on his father's lap with his long skinny legs hanging over the chair arm. "Of course, Laddie, you can always ask me questions. What is it?"
"Well, I'm curious. You know if you drop a steel ball into a glass of water the ball sinks right to the bottom. But large ships are made of steel, why don't they sink?"
"Good question, my lad. The reason is something called displacement. Displacement is the pushing away of water when something is placed in it. If you watched the water level in the glass when you dropped the steel ball in, you saw the level rise in the glass. That rise is the water being displaced by the shape, or volume, of the ball. If the object weighs more than the amount of water displaced the object will sink. Now, a floating object always displaces its exact weight in the same weight of water. In order to float, the volume of the object must be greater than the volume of water displaced. Is that clear?"
JT hesitated with his face screwed up in concentration. "Mm, no, not really. How do you know how much water is displaced? And how do you tell whether it will float or not? For example, would a cast iron bathtub float?" He said the latter with some apprehension.
"That is a very good example and is an easy one to analyse." He picked up a notepad and pen from the table next to his chair. "Let's say the tub is about five feet long by two feet wide," he said, sketching a rough rectangle and labeling the sides with the dimensions. "Now, JT, what is the square footage?" "Well, that would be five times two, or ten square feet, right?"
"That's right. Now here is something I want you to learn. You know we engineers are always thought to be too picky and have to have everything calculated out to the tenth decimal place. Well, that isn't always true. The sign of a good engineer is to be able to make a rough calculation that will establish a base for making a decision. So here we go. Let's assume that the tub weighs about 300 pounds. Now water weighs 62.4 pounds per cubic foot so for convenience we will say 60 pounds per cubic foot. That means that when the tub is placed in the water it will have to displace 300 pound of water. Right?"
"Right," his eyes sparkled, "that means that if we divide the weight of water by its weight per cubic foot we can find out what the displacement is, right?" "You got it kid. So what is 300 divided by 60?" "That's easy, five." "Ok, now the area of the base of the tub we figured as ten square feet so how far is the tub going to sink into the water?"
JT scratched his head a moment then said, "It would have to be half a foot wouldn't it? An area of ten square feet times a depth of half a foot equals five cubic feet." "Right again. So if the tub is deeper than six inches it will float, won't it?"
With a big grin, JT reached up and hugged his father and leaped off his lap. "That was great Dad, thanks." In a moment, JT was next door in George's room. "It will float." Then he went through the calculations he and his dad had done.
The next thing to be done then was to get the tub out of the house and into the river. They decided that they could launch their vessel, now named the USS Bathtub, by building a slipway down the stairs which ended just short of the front door. Using two-by-fours from the shed they nailed two runners down the stairs about a foot a part and up to the boarded over front door. Using levers and blocks, they were able to maneouvre the tub through the door and to the top of the stairs.
They decided that the claw feet had to go as they would create too much drag in the water. A single blow of a sledge hammer easily broke the cast iron feet leaving only a couple inches protruding. It took them three nights to get all this accomplished and all was in readiness for the launch of the USS Bathtub. The only remaining barrier was the boards across the front door.
The next day was a Monday so they decided they would launch it in the morning so they would have daylight and they wouldn't expect any witnesses. They finished making the two crude paddles and headed home for some sleep.
The next morning they removed the boards across the door. Looking out the door, the porch tipped down toward the river, leaving a drop of about four feet into the water. They climbed the stairs and levered the tub out to where it hung almost half way over the stairs.
"Prelaunch check, Captain," JT said with a smart salute. "Drain plug is installed and the ship is ready for launch, Sir."
"Very well, Mate. Since I am the Captain I will sit in front." George crawled into the tub, being careful not to tip it down the stairs. JT got in behind him and all was ready. Both moved forward until the tub tipped and started to slide down the rails. They hung on as it gathered speed down the stairs. With a hard bump, it hit the bottom of the stairs and shot out the door and across the porch. It seemed to hang in the air for ever...
There was a shrieked chorus of, "Oh my gawwwwd!" And a mighty splash as it hit the water.
JT felt cold water on his bottom as he crouched in the rear. He turned just in time to see the drain plug rise on a column of water and disappear overboard. "Captain, we have a problem." George turned to see what was happening. JT was frantically trying to stop the water pouring in through the drain with his hands but to no avail. The water level was rising rapidly.
"Abandon ship. Abandon ship," cried George and over the side the two went. They swam the few feet to shore and turned just in time to see the USS Bathtub disappear beneath the surface.
So ended the great bathtub caper of 1950.
Gordon J Twa
A Christmas Letter to Friends and Family
December 2006
Dear Family and Friends
There was a mix up last year and our Christmas letters never got mailed. We sent the letters and the money for the stamps with our youngest son, Bobby Joe, to the post office and he lost the letters on the bus. Being the gentle child he is, he was too embarrassed to tell us. He was afraid our feelings would be hurt so he didn't say anything. We were kind of curious as to where the new games for his Game Boy came from but he explained that his good friend, Roger, down the street gave them to him. It wasn't until about a week ago that we overheard him telling a friend about the lost letters. Of course, after all this time, we couldn't consider punishing him.
So, kind people, I have included last year's letter and added to it the happenings in this past year...
December 2005
Merry Christmas and a Happy New year to all.
This year has been a good year for the family. I was released on parole in March and it was good to get home. I did miss the good cooking but Mary Lou has been taking cooking lessons and her meals are greatly improved.
My wonderful Mary Lou kept the family together for those long years I was absent. In fact her clientele loved her so much that they keep coming back to see her even though she told them she was no longer in business. Even the manager of the hotel loves her so much that he extended the reservation on her office for another year.
We have been so fortunate. Sons Billy Joe and Jerry Lee have been so successful in the import/export business that we no longer need Mary Lou's income but she says she just feels more needed if she can continue to work.
Billy Joe, who is a genius when it comes to business, obtained exclusive contracts from executives in Colombia and Afghanistan to distribute their products in several states. His brother, Jerry Lee, who is also a brilliant young man, takes care of the transportation and distribution end of their business. Just last week, Jerry announced he had set up a system similar to Amway that is extremely successful. Already he has networks going in three states.
Brother John-John has joined the firm even though he is in the army. Through a slight misunderstanding at Andrew Jackson High School he was given the choice of joining the army or joining his father (in jail that is). This was fortuitous in that, being stationed in Afghanistan, he has been able, with his wonderful personality, to arrange free transportation for his brother's products on military transports. This is a great saving to the company, not only in freight charges but it eliminates the cost of persuading customs inspectors.
Little Sara Lee is a junior at Andrew Jackson High this year. She is already planning to go to college and is saving her earnings. She has always been the star of the drama club and in the last two years she put her expertise to good use. She signed a contract with S and M Movie Company and has made 69 movies so far. The company had a bit of a struggle at first with distribution because of some narrow-minded individuals in the government. That problem was solved when Jerry Lee stepped in and persuaded them to use his distribution system. Now Sara Lee sees no problem in being able to attend Vassar when she graduates.
Janet Lee, Sara Lee's daughter, will be one year old Christmas day. She is a fine healthy little one and is our pride and joy.
Our youngest, Bobby Joe, will be ten come January 15. We are proud as can be of that boy. During this last year he has set only three fires. And, not like last year, only one old woman was seriously injured trying to escape from the last fire.
Well that is all the news from this side and we all hope this letter finds you all in good health, prosperous and happy and that this will follow you through the next year.
With much love, Howard Joe, Mary Lou, Billy Joe, Jerry Lee, John-John, Sara Lee, Janet Lee and Bobby Joe.
December 8, 2006
Best wishes to everyone.
I can't believe another year has gone by. It has been a great year for everyone in the family. There have been a few minor problems but as the wise men say, "Problems are nothing more than challenges."
As you can tell by the return address, I am back in the slammer. I don't really mind, the food is good and all my friends are still here.
But I do want you to know that I am really quite innocent. The charges were trumped up by my employer, old Jefferson Flacker who owns the Flacker Moving and Storage company. My sons Billy Joe and Jerry Lee just needed some temporary storage space for a shipment coming in from Colombia and there was this unused warehouse in town. I still can't understand why old Flacker got so excited when he found three tons of white powder stored there. They caught Jerry Lee loading a truck and now he is waiting trial for trafficking. Billy Joe was back east making a deal with a new distributor so he is ok.
John-John is back from Afghanistan. He did such a good job over there that they released him early. There was some mistake made and he was transferred to the brig at Fort Davis. He writes that that will be all straightened out but may take about five years.
Little Sara Lee completed her senior year at Jefferson High. She asked for a transfer from Andrew Jackson High. It seems that a copy of one of her DVDs from the movie company wound up being shown at the student assembly and Miss Primly, her home room teacher, fainted and in the ensuing hub-bub the principal, Mr Jacoby, knocked over the projection screen which hit Johnny Fister on the head and they had to take him to the hospital. He will be all right, just a concussion. Sara has decided to continue with her screen career and turned down an offer from Vassar.
Janet Lee, now two years old, is a darling. We are all hoping that she will be potty trained real soon. She does this cute thing where she takes off her diapers and runs around the house naked. We have had the carpet replaced in the living room and the Four Star Carpet Cleaning service is giving us a special bulk rate on cleaning.
Mary Lou gave up her business at the hotel. It seems that some woman complained to the police that Mary Lou was doing something illegal. But the woman's husband refused to press charges so no action was taken. She is now attending the junior college taking cooking lessons. She wants to open up her own restaurant. I am sure if she studies real hard she will become a great cook.
Last year we gave Bobby Joe a chemistry set for Christmas. We figured that if we could get him interested in other things he might not set so many fires. It really worked. He hasn't set any fires all year. There have been some curious explosions in the neighbourhood. One of the neighbours claimed Bobby Joe was responsible but we all know that can't be true. He has asked that his allowance be increased so that he can buy more chemicals. That is a good sign that he is really serious about becoming a chemist. He is making new friends. A family of immigrants from the Middle East moved in just down the block. They are very friendly and since they found that Bobby Joe was studying chemistry they have been spending a lot of time in the garage.
Well, my family and friends, we all hope you have a very merry Christmas and great new year with health and happiness to all.
Howard Joe, Mary Lou, Billy Joe, Jerry Lee, John-John, Sara Lee, Janet Lee and Bobby Joe.
Phillip sat on the old battered swing lounge on the front porch and fumed. It was a beautiful sunny spring day. The shade of the large trees growing in the parkway kept the unseasonably warm weather to a comfortable level.
He looked down the tunnel of overhanging branches and there was another one sauntering up the sidewalk. Completely aloof to its surroundings, it slouched along, stopping now and then to sniff the air or slide its nose along the sidewalk in search of an elusive odour. Then, its ears pricked up as if receiving some unknown signal, its head swivelled left, then right, then back left again. Its tail stood straight out behind and it left the sidewalk and headed straight for the corner of the house below Phillip.
The house, a typical pre-forties house, sat with its wide veranda down the two sides of the house that faced the intersecting streets. The well-kept lawn showed the pride of ownership.
The problem was the corner of the house that faced the intersection - it functioned as the message centre for every male dog in the neighbourhood. And in the warmth of the day it was beginning to tell.
The screen door squeaked as Annette stepped onto the veranda. "How about some iced tea, Phillip." She set the tall glass, already beading with drops, on the small wrought iron glass-topped table at the left end of the swing.
"Damn quack doctors. You know what I would give for a frosty can of Bud!" "Now, don't be so grumpy. You know what they said about your high blood pressure." "Annette, I'll tell you what is raising my blood pressure, it's these god damn dogs pissing on the corner of the house." "Now, now, calm down. There is just nothing you can do about it, so drink your tea and settle down."
Phillip took a long draught which dropped the level by a good three inches. He leaned back in the swing. Can't do anything about, eh? Well, we will just see about that. I don't have an engineering degree for nothing. He sat there, lost in thought for several minutes.
In the garage, he pulled a couple boxes down off the overhead storage. He sneezed twice in the dust disturbed. One of the boxes had stuff he saved from childhood. His mother had saved boxes of junk through four moves after he went into the Air Force and up to the time he married Annette and bought this house forty years ago.
He wiped away the accumulation of dust and dryer lint and slit the tape. Now if that little goody is still there after all these years. His hands trembled with anticipation as he pulled open the flaps of the box. He pulled away half of an old tyre innertube, some wadded-up newspaper that contained four 6J6 glass envelope radio tubes carefully separated, a pair of World War II padded earphones, a military carbon mike, a board with one of his first crystal sets … the coil of wire wound on an oatmeal box now flattened, an infra-red filter from a later day in its padded envelope, and, there it was.
Down in the corner was the wooden box. It measured about six inches by five inches and about three inches thick. On the end was the buzzer or vibrator, and the electrical terminals. A Ford Model T spark coil. Many of his friends had felt the jolt from this little guys. The Ford Model T had a unique ignition system, four of these spark coils were used, one for each spark plug. When energised by the distributor, each coil sent out a continuous stream of sparks as the buzzer interrupted the current in the primary coil of the spark coil.
Phillip remembered when he and his best buddy built radio transmitters using the spark coil connected to long outdoor antennas. They worked great, even from one side of town to the other. A slight problem was that they broke into everyone's radios which, for some reason, was not appreciated. Also, when hidden under the work bench and operated with a hidden switch, a wire protruding from a mysterious black box on the top of the bench provide a surprise to innocents when touched. Phillip placed the little wooden box on the work bench and went on with his search.
Soon he had accumulated on the bench some wire, two brass plates, both about twelve inches square, a six volt storage battery from an old lawn mower, and a switch. He soldered a wire to each brass plate long enough to reach from the corner of the house to the table next to the swing. He mounted one of the plates in the best place, easily identified by the yellow stain on the wood siding, and the other plate, he placed on the ground directly under the other. The wires were connected to the two screw terminals on the end of the spark coil box. A wire ran from the positive terminal on the box to the switch which he mounted on a small board that was clamped to the battery. The other side of the switch was connected to the battery, and the negative terminal of the battery was connected to the corresponding terminal on the spark coil.
Phillip turned the switch on and heard the satisfying buzz from the vibrator. Carrying a piece of heavily insulated wire with each end bared, he moved down the steps to the corner of the house. He touched one end of the wire to the plate on the ground and brought the other end close to the plate on the wall. There was snapping sound and a blue spark jumped a gap of about a quarter inch as the wire approached the plate. Now we are ready.
He retraced his steps to the porch and turned his magical device off. Since Annette had left to do some shopping while he accomplished this wondrous engineering feat, he moved stuff aside in the garage refrigerator and pulled a cold can of Bud Lite and settled into the swing.
"This is war, bring them on," he muttered, enjoying that first cold swig. He felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. He leaned his head back against the cushion and was almost dozing when the first victim appeared down the street on his left.
It was some mongrel, short legs, fat body, a pushed-in face and a mottled brown-and-white coat. It stopped to anoint the tyre on his neighbour's VW, then ambled on toward the corner. At first it appeared to take no notice of Phillip's house. Then as it got closer, it raised its head and sniffed the air. It squatted on its haunches and scratched briskly at its left ear. It sat for a moment sniffing the air, then as if drawn by fate turned off the sidewalk and headed for the corner of the house.
Phillip turned the switch on. The vibrator buzzed. The dog disappeared below Phillip's line of sight. All was quiet. Then an ear piercing screech of dog agony. Into view appeared a blur of white and brown going end over end across the lawn. If the dog could have held a certain portion of its anatomy, it certainly would have. As it reached the side walk, it regained its feet and the stubby little legs beat a pattern of escape accompanied with short yips of anguish.
Phillip reached over and turned off the switch. He was laughing so hard the swing was banging against the house wall. After one week of welcoming all the neighbourhood dogs, Phillip had no more problem with unwelcome pets.
Gordon J Twa
Footnote from Gordon: One of my favourites and based on real events when I was aged about 11 and living in Merritton, Ontario, Canada. The guy on the corner just down from us did exactly this.
That was one Thanksgiving to remember or, more like it, as President Roosevelt said, "a day that will live in infamy."
This was to be a combined Thanksgiving and family reunion; one of the first in many years where all of the family would be together. As it turned out, my father and mother were the only ones not present.
My father had been transferred out to San Francisco in California six months ago. They left me staying with Grandpa Eric and Grandma Ellen to finish the last few months of high school.
My grandparents' place was unique. Fifteen years ago, after the last series of droughts, grandpa sold off all but the three acres containing the house and the equipment sheds. Now, it was surrounded on three sides by five storey condominiums painted a Pepto Bismal pink. Across the street was a strip mall anchored on the south end by a Home Depot and on the other end by a Walmart. Directly across the street, opposite the entrance, was a Starbucks.
I went up the three steps onto the back porch and stuck my head into the open kitchen window where Uncle Larry was preparing the turkey. "Wanna beer Unc?" "Sure."
I opened the cooler sitting below the window and passed him a cold one. I walked into the kitchen just as Grandma Ellen came in from the dining room.
Now, my grandma was a stickler, no alcohol or smoking in the house. Larry caught sight of her and slipped the unopened can of beer into the turkey. I hid mine down by my side and went back outside.
Out in the back yard, Uncle Billy, was trying to get his barbecue going. This was quite a contraption, two 55-gallon oil drums laid on their sides and split down the middle and mounted on a trailer. The upper halves of the drums were hinged as lids. At one end was a smoke stack about six inches in diameter and three or four feet high.
At the opposite end was a fold down table and cabinets for utensils and for his secret barbecue sauce. Not even his golden retriever dog knew the recipe. Uncle Billy was a star attraction at the local Chamber of Commerce meetings and other fund raisers around the valley.
A little smoke curled up from the open lid Uncle Billy held. He turned to me and asked: "Hey, Kid, do you have any charcoal lighter fluid?"
I hated it when they called me Kid, my name was Chuck. "Yeah, there is some kerosene in the tack room."
It was called the tack room even though there had been no horse harness in there for 60 years. It was the closed-in room at the near end of the six open bay equipment shed.
Uncle Billy turned to his grandson, Jake, and told him to go get the kerosene. Jake was a nice kid but a little slow, like his playlist was short a few tunes. He was 15 years old but acted more like nine or ten. He galloped off, dust puffing up from his bare feet.
I sat my beer down on the railing and turned back into the kitchen. Grandma was still in there giving explicit directions to Uncle Larry on how to prepare the turkey.
Now, my Uncle had been a cook in the army and was good. His only problem was converting from his army cookbook to civilian cooking. Like, when the recipe for potato salad called for 200 pounds of potatoes and he had to cut it down to two pounds. But he was patient, just nodding to the words of wisdom from grandma.
I looked over Uncle Larry's shoulder and watched as Jake bent over, with his back to me, and filled a coffee can. He handed Uncle Billy the coffee can and turned away.
I shouted, "No! No!" and dashed out of the house, clearing the three steps. The red can glaring at me where it sat on the ground. The red can was white gas for the lanterns. Too late.
Uncle Billy sloshed the can into the open barbeque and dropped the lid with a clank. There was a muffled boom and both lids flew up. Flaming chunks of charcoal, no briquettes for Uncle Charley, filled the air. One large chunk went up and out the smoke stack like a rocket.
I slid to a stop and watched in awe as this piece arced over the fence and up two stories to light on an umbrella on the nearest balcony. The umbrella immediately caught fire.
Other embers rained down on the dry shingle roof of the equipment shed. Smoke curled up immediately.
I whirled around and dashed back into the house to call nine-one-one. Uncle Larry passed me going in the opposite direction to grab the garden hose.
The operator assured me the fire crew would be there momentarily. Grandma was staring out the window.
Finally she turned back and started stuffing the turkey as if nothing was going to interfere with her Thanksgiving dinner. For the next couple hours everyone, except grandma and Aunt Sarah, was in the backyard watching the firemen subdue the flames on the equipment shed and one guy who went next door to put out the small blaze on the balcony.
In the kitchen, preparations were well under way. Pies, salads, trays of pickles, pans of mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes (waiting to go into the oven), and other goodies, weighed down the long table down the centre of the kitchen.
I went back into the kitchen and watched as Grandma put the finishing touches to the dish of cranberries. Suddenly there was a loud bang.
The oven door flew off, striking the legs of the table, snapping both legs off. The kitchen filled with steam and turkey. Turkey bits made greasy tracks as they slid down the opposite wall. I stood in amazement as I watched all the food on the table slide to the floor.
Aunt Sarah came bustling into the kitchen. Her left foot landed in a pumpkin pie and down she went striking the china cabinet. Down rained blue willow patterned china with a huge crash.
I stepped in to help her up and stepped on the edge of banana cream pie plate. This flipped up and came down right on top of Aunt Sarah's head.
Bruno, the mixed Saint Bernard/Great Dane, came bounding into the kitchen. Clearing Aunt Sarah, he landed with his hind feet in the crystal dish containing the cranberries which somehow had remained upright. His front feet landed in a large pan of mashed sweet-potatoes.
His big mouth opened and down went a large portion of sweet-potatoes. This was followed by a stick of butter that had slid off its crystal butter-dish.
Grandma grabbed up a broom from the corner and, waving it over her head, charged at Bruno screaming, "Get out, get out of here you miserable hound."
Bruno took one look at the outraged woman and decided retreat was better than scarfing down another goody. He spun around to the way he came.
He leaped for the living-room door and landed with all four feet in the middle of Aunt Sarah's back. She had just managed to get up on all fours. This caused a collapse with her face landing in the remains of the banana cream pie.
Bruno headed for the just opening front door, leaving alternate red and yellow paw prints on the freshly vacuumed carpet. Uncle Fred and Aunt Maude stood momentarily in the opening but disappeared when bowled over by the retreating dog.
There was the sound of crashing glass and of a metal container hitting the cement. I did not want to see what that was all about.
Grandma was screaming in a steady wail as she witnessed the destruction of her Thanksgiving dinner.
Uncle Larry came in the back door, eyes wide in shock at the carnage. "What in hell happened?"
I caught his eye and made the motion with my thumb and little finger of drinking a beer. "Oh, my gawd!" Uncle Larry said, and smacked his forehead.
And that is how the beer got in the turkey.
Gordon J Twa
The Sound of Deviltry in the Night... or Things That Go Bump in the Night
Halloween always brings back memories - some good, some bad and some embarrassing. The best Halloweens were those two years in the little town of Enderby in central British Columbia. Those two years, I was in the ninth and tenth grades.
Now, Enderby, with a population of about twelve hundred, which may have included dogs and cats, was anything but a modern metropolis. There was no central sewage system: everyone had outhouses. Many parts of town had wooden sidewalks. Most people used wood-burning stoves to cook and heat with. All of this provided targets of opportunity for the mischievous youth of the town on Halloween.
The town fathers, of course, knew this and in an attempt to forestall the creative minds of youth, set up a party at the local Knights of Columbus Hall to keep us contained and off the streets. There was a costume contest, lots of candy, a bobbing-for-apples contest and other assorted activities that really held little interest to us who had greater plans for the evening.
It was really the second year that was most memorable. The first year we had not been in town long enough to be integrated into the little helion society.
The Halloween of 1947 was memorable, not only to us, but to the townsfolk also. My buddy Walt and I had by this time perfected the art of homemade blasting powder and the construction of various explosive devices. I guess today they would be called IEDs, or Improvised Explosive Devices.
In preparation for the Halloween party we had obtained from the butcher shop the core out of the spool of twine he used to tie packages of meat. This core was a heavy walled cardboard tube about eight inches long with an inside diameter of about a half inch. We carved a short wooden plug which was glued into one end of the tube. The tube was filled with our special "poof powder" and another wooden plug with a notch for the dynamite fuse was made for the other end. We used about fifteen feet of slow burn fuse.
The night of the party was a beautiful clear night with a full moon. We put our little surprise in the open cylinder of an old rusty engine sitting in the alley between the Knights of Columbus hall and a second-hand store. We lit the fuse and wandered nonchalantly into the party. The party was in full swing with little kids dashing hither and thither. Somebody picked an apple out of the tub for the bobbing contest and sailed it across the room, narrowly missing Miss Smart our home room teacher.
There was a thunderous boom … the building shook … an absolute silence descended on the room … for all of three seconds … there were screams and a mad rush for the front door. People milled about in the street. The alley way was filled with dense sulphureous smoke. Walt and I left. We still had things to do.
We had heard that the senior classes were going to put a buggy up in the high school gym. We arrived at the front of the school just as a group was dismantling a buggy. The wheels were off and laying on the grass. The double doors of the school were open. Five guys picked up the body of the buggy and headed for the doors. Walt and I each grabbed a wheel and followed.
The school was a two-story brick building that housed all twelve grades. The gym was upstairs. Luckily, the school was designed for the stampeding kids and had anice wide stairway and halls. It took only a few minutes to reassemble the buggy.
We all stood back and admired our handy work. "Boy is Mr Williams going to be pissed when he sees this," said one of the seniors.
"Want to bet he knows right off who did this?" piped up one of the others.
We all left, closing the doors behind us. Other deviltry awaited.
Just one block off the main drag, there was an alley that was a favorite target. Along this alley, the people placed their outhouses right back against the alley to get them as far from the house as possible. Targets too tempting to pass up.
When we arrived, there was already a group of three kids at work. The technique used was to back up across the alley, make rush, and hit the back of the outhouse and knock it over onto its face. One outhouse had already bit the dust. They made their rush and hit the next one. Only this one did not go over and they seemed to bounce off it and lay in a scrambled heap in the middle of the alley. We walked over to take a look. The owner had sunk six-inch diameter posts into the ground at all four corners. We continued up the alley.
Another group of three guys was coming down the alley from the opposite end. We watched their attack. They sailed across the alley in good formation. They disappeared. There was a lot of hollering and the air turned blue with the cussing. The owner had moved the outhouse forward off the hole. Three stalwart souls were up to their waists in waste. We heard a loud guffaw from the back porch of the house. We decided to forgo the outhouse routine.
It was getting late so we limited our shenanigans to knocking over a few woodpiles, putting a section of wooden sidewalk up on the front porch of one house... and we took some kid's red wagon and hung it high up in a tree in the front yard.
The next morning, Mr Williams, the principal, came into the classroom and pointed to Walt and I and crooked his finger. We followed him to the gym where the other culprits were all assembled. He pointed to the buggy. He pointed to door. And walked out of the gym.
Gordon J Twa
Footnote from Gordon: This one is true.
The setting sun drew a red slash across the horizon. Below the crimson cloud, a flash of brilliant yellow. Above the flaming streak, the sky faded from mauve to deeper and deeper shades of purple. A soft warm breeze fluttered the flowers in the bowl in the center of the table.
"Forty years," Annette murmured, "and we are still together. Don't you think that is amazing, Phillip?"
"Well, there were a couple good years in there somewhere." That statement brought a short punch to his arm.
"Come on Phil, can't you ever be serious? You know we have had a wonderful life together. Remember that year. We had both just graduated and were twenty-two. We were so much in love and I dont think our love has changed at all."
Before Phillip could respond, there appeared what looked like a flock of lightning bugs circling around the table. The cloud of sparkles came to hover over the center of the table. It coalesced slowly into the figure of a little creature about six inches tall. She had a perfectly proportioned figure dressed in a short gold dress. On her back were wings like a butterfly but so thin that they showed all the colors of a rainbow. And like a butterfly, the wings slowly opened and closed.
Phillip and Annette were frozen in place sitting side by side still holding hands. The little figure pirouetted slowly as if to show off her beauty, then walked around the white china plates with the silver rims containing the last smear of raspberry sauce from the cheesecake. She hooked one arm over the rim of Annette's champagne glass.
"Hey, its cool. I really am a fairy and it isn't something you drank. People don't believe we exist but that is just the liberal press we get. Anyway, I have been watching you two for the last forty years and am very pleased at what I have seen. If ever there was a perfect marriage, it is yours. Sure you have had a few little tiffs but never anything serious and you have always made up. So as a reward, here on your fortieth wedding anniversary, I have been authorized to grant you each one wish."
"Are … are you for real?" Phillip stammered rubbing his eyes. "You mean we each get a wish?"
"For sure. You can have anything you desire. The only stipulation is that once the wish is granted, it is non-reversible. Let's start with you, Annette. What would you wish for?"
Annette, too, rubbed here eyes, not believing what she was seeing. "Oh my, I don't know. That is a hard thing to do on such a short notice. We already have most things; a good home, a good car, my loving husband, our health so what else is there?" She pulled on a strand of hair absently as she contemplated her choice. She looked over at Phillip who still had a shocked expression. "I know. How about a round the world cruise for two?"
The little fairy smiled and waved the short glittering wand in her left hand and there, in Annette's hand, appeared an envelope with the tickets. Amazed, Annette pulled the tickets out and showed them to Phillip.
"Ok Phil, it is your turn. What would you like? Remember it is for the rest of your life. No returns and no refunds."
Phillip had been thinking while Annette made her wish. He turned to Annette and said: "Honey, I'm sorry. This is such a chance. Only once in a life time could something like this happen. He turned to look down at the fairy, What I really want is … he stammered a little, … is a wife thirty years younger than me."
"Are you sure? Really sure?" The fairy raised her wand which now seemed to throb with pulses of light as she waited for Phillip's nod. "Ok."
She touched Phillip's hand with the wand and his body was surrounded by a wavering blue light. The light lasted only for a few seconds and when it faded away, there sat a ninety-two year old Phillip.
There was a flash of gold as the fairy returned to the glittering cloud and disappeared into the distance.
"How could she do this to me?" Phillip said looking down at his wrinkled and age spotted hands.
"Remember, Phillip, fairies are female," Annette said with a grimace.
Gordon J Twa
Footnote from Gordon: This story was inspired by a joke on the internet. I apologise to the originator of that joke for using his/her storyline. It was too good to pass up.